Social Support
by Anera527
Summary: Frodo, recently adopted by Bilbo as heir of Bag End, is captured by ruffians. Told that his nephew's life lies in his hands, Bilbo enlists the help of Thorin and his Company to save his nephew from a fate worse than death. No slash!
1. Chapter 1

"_**Social Support"**_

A/N: I was inspired to write this from my Psychology class at college. Our professor was talking about post traumatic stress disorder, and how children who experience traumatic events should be given choices of what they want to do or what they want to eat in everyday life to be given a semblance of control. That remark birthed a whole lot of plot bunnies, several of which you will find in this story. The rating is for abusive situations, some torture, and Dwarvish cursing.

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Bilbo Baggins was normally an even-minded fellow, good in tight situations and not easily rattled by the unexpected. Or at least he was now, but he supposed he should be after all the Orcs, Goblins, Wargs, and battles he had faced. "War chokes out the cowards and emboldens the true" was a saying an old friend had once told him during his Adventure, and Bilbo supposed that that made him "true".

But Bilbo Baggins was terrified now. He could feel his fingers trembling uncontrollably and his mouth was completely dry. His heart was being squeezed by panic, and worst of all he could do nothing about it.

'… _we have taken your kinsman to ensure that we will not be followed. If you value his sanity and his life you would do well not to follow us.'_

Ruffians had taken his Frodo, his own sweet Shireling, his son in all but blood. They had taken Frodo, and it was because of that that Bilbo knew they had signed their own death warrant. More than fear, Bilbo felt simple, choking rage that that these cowardly Men would dare threaten the one thing dearest to him, and it was only of the threat on his nephew's life that kept the Baggins from grabbing Sting from the wall and chasing after them.

They would pay. They would pay dearly.

But first he had to think this through, even if his fear made it difficult. He could not afford to rush blindly and thoughtlessly into this, after all—not with Frodo's life at stake.

He had been targeted for something. That could be the only logical explanation for this—why else would Men enter the always-peaceful Shire and kidnap his nephew and leave a note_ specifically_ for him? He just didn't know why he was being targeted now. He had no information to go on, nothing to even question a starting point, so he would have to rely on what he _did_ know.

What he did know was that a crudely-made arrow had buried itself into the side of Bag End's door as he stood outside, with this single sheet of coarse paper curled around it. And with it was a single tuft of soft brown hair that Bilbo would know anywhere.

He shouldn't have allowed Frodo to go off by himself, but he had never thought that there could be any danger in allowing his nephew to go explore. It was a normal habit for Frodo to go off by himself, walking down through Hobbiton or through the woods. He was twenty-two after all, well capable of caring for himself during a short walk.

It seemed he had been mistaken.

But none of that mattered now. What mattered was the plan he had to make to get Frodo back. Only after his nephew was safe again would he try to figure out the ruffians' ultimate plan.

But he would need help. He couldn't face fully-grown Men by himself, he wasn't that blinded by desperation. One hobbit couldn't hope to succeed, but he could not even convince himself that any of his neighbors would join him in his search. None would think to journey beyond the boundaries of the Shire, especially with one who they already thought cracked. So who-?

But then he realized that he could ask someone. He had not thought about writing to Thorin Oakenshield for several years—not after the events with the Arkenstone—but he needed help. The Dwarves of Erebor could possibly be the only hope he had. He would write a letter and send it as quickly as it could to the Lonely Mountain and then set out. He knew that if Thorin choose to respond to his plea the Dwarf would find him even in the Wild.

He could only pray that Thorin had forgiven him. If not, he feared that his nephew would be welcoming an early grave.


	2. Chapter 2

"_**Chapter 2"**_

Thorin Oakenshield had been King Under the Mountain for nearly fifty years. He had had to deal with the destruction of Erebor due to Smaug's occupation, cleaning up fallen ruins and dragon waste; then he had had to deal with Dwarves who thought that he wouldn't do right by his people and tried to usurp his throne. Finally, he had had to deal with the rats that crawled from the woodwork of his people who must have created a competition to see who could give him the worst headache. He wondered if these Dwarves and Men could be described as politicians with the way they stuck to you and never let you go.

Or maybe they could be categorized as _leeches_. Leeches were parasites, after all, and he could use that excuse to legally kill them. Or at least semi-legally kill them.

He knew that Dwarvish culture allowed for a lot of violence, but he didn't think that it would allow the King to execute his people simply for giving him a headache.

Right now he had retreated inside his chambers, with threats that any who disturbed him would _severely_ regret it. He had hung all of his weaponry aside, draped his armor across the end of his large bed, and then simply flung his fur-lined cape across one of the carefully-crafted chairs that sat in the corner. He didn't care if he was shirtless right now—it was only him in here anyway, and_ he_ sure didn't mind if he was partly naked.

He sighed and with little grace fell into his bed, breathing a heavy sigh through his nose as he tried to relax. It had been a long, hard day—just like all the others were. When he had fought to reclaim Erebor as a Dwarvish kingdom he had forgotten the harsh responsibilities he already faced would only become heavier and harder.

Just as he was beginning to relax into his soft coverlet, he heard a loud banging at the door. His deep blue eyes snapped open and he muttered a hot curse under his breath as he stumbled to his feet, groaning as overworked muscles protested their movements. He partly hoped that whoever was knocking would perhaps remember the threat of immediate death should he be disturbed but no such luck—the knocking came again, louder and more insistent this time, and it was with ill-disguised irritation that he roughly grasped the handle and flung the heavy door open.

"Do you think that you—" he began hotly, preparing to give whoever it was a severe tongue-lashing—

But then he stopped mid-word. It wasn't just any Dwarf standing there—it was his nephew Kili. Kili, who rarely left his own chambers anymore; Kili, who had become so physically crippled following the Battle of the Five Armies that he could barely walk; Kili, who had rarely spoken after his brother's death during that same battle.

His nephew was looking up at him with wide, worried brown eyes, which caused Thorin's own confusion and concern to rise. What had happened that would bring now-reclusive Kili out of his shell?

"Come in, Kili," he said automatically, hastily softening his tone and stepping aside. Kili did so quickly and silently, and Thorin noticed that he held a long slip of fine paper in his left hand. When his nephew was through the threshold he swung the door closed again and locked it again, sensing that the upcoming discussion would be better just between them. When he was done with that he walked up to Kili and allowed him to sit on the bed.

"What is it, Kili?"

In response, the dark-haired Dwarf handed over the paper in his grasp—Thorin saw that it was a letter, and written in a thin, wandering hand that suddenly sent his heart racing. He tried to keep his fingers from trembling but couldn't quite manage it as he took it.

It was short and to the point, and Thorin felt his brow raise as Bilbo addressed his nephew in clipped, almost impersonal tones. But it was the content that really made him look twice. Bilbo's own nephew taken by ruffians and threatened with death? What would cause any Man to do such a thing? And now Bilbo was wandering around unprotected and alone looking for them? What was the stubborn Baggins _doing_? Was he _trying_ to kill his nephew and himself?

He looked up from the letter to see Kili looking at him carefully, and clearly saw the anger lurking on his face.

"I don't know what he expects me to do, Kili," he said shortly, and handed the letter back. "He's in the wild now, and I wouldn't know where to look for him. He could be anywhere."

His nephew's eyes turned dark with distress and his mouth opened as if he were going to speak—but no sound came out, and he could only shake his head in silent plea.

Thorin's brow darkened. 'You expect me to help the one who _betrayed_ me? Who betrayed _all_ of us?!" he growled. The memories of Bilbo's giving the Arkenstone to their enemies still stung. "How dare he ask for help now! It's been fifty years and there hasn't been a word from him!" He knew that his last statement wasn't technically true—Bilbo had kept in touch with Kili all these years, but his nephew had never shared with him those letters and never said anything that even mentioned the hobbit.

He spun angrily on his heel and strode to the blazing hearth of his fireplace. "No! I will not help him—he'll have to be on his own."

"But his _nephew_, Uncle."

Kili's voice was low and scratchy with little use, and Thorin turned startled eyes on him to hear him even speak at all. But his nephew's face was set and clear, as were his eyes, and it was clear that he was going to fight on Bilbo's behalf.

"We haven't even met his nephew!"

Again Kili shook his head. "What would you do?" he asked simply.

And Thorin had to pause mid-retort as the weight of that question hit him. He knew what Kili was talking about—what if Kili himself was captured and held captive? Wouldn't his uncle try everything within his power to try and get him back?

It was through that realization that that was exactly what he would do that Thorin also realized that it was a show of the faith Bilbo had in the Dwarf-king who had turned him out that he would dare write a letter asking for his help. And for the first time since casting Bilbo Baggins out of Erebor, Thorin Oakenshield felt guilt settle in his heart. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough, and his shoulders slumped as he also realized that the argument was all but lost on his part.

But turning back to Kili he couldn't be angry. "When did you become so wise?" he asked softly.

His nephew smiled tightly, silent once again, but Thorin knew his answer. He had become so wise through battle, and the death of his brother. It hurt more than ever to know that Kili would never ascend the throne of Erebor, as the extent of his injuries left him inept.

He would have made a remarkable king.

A/N: I loved writing Kili in this! Go Kili, stand up to your uncle and his hard-assery!


	3. Chapter 3

"_**Chapter 3"**_

It had been fifty years since Thorin had so much as talked about the lands around the Shire, perfectly fine with pretending that hobbits did not exist. He supposed that was the reason why Kili never showed him Bilbo's letters, and if he ever felt a little regretful about that he shoved it away and forgot about it. Besides, he was the king of Erebor and his already-stressful workload did not to include worrying about a Halfling that dared betray him, and if any of the Company so much as mentioned Bilbo Baggins' name they were silenced with a fierce glare and a warning.

Therefore, they were very much surprised when Thorin told them they were going to help the said Baggins.

"Men _entered_ the Shire?" Dwailin asked, a mix of shock and anger warring on his face. "Is that even _allowed_?"

Thorin shrugged. "How am I supposed to know?" he retorted. "I don't live there."

Bofur, currently reading through Bilbo's hastily-written letter, looked up; his dark eyes were burning. "And they captured an innocent child!" he exclaimed. "The brutes!"

"Who will be going with you?"

Thorin crossed his arms. "Only a few of us," he answered. "And only members of the Company, as Baggins has specifically asked for them." There was no need to mention that the Company was now down to eleven in number: Balin had gone to the Mines of Moria and Ori had gone with him several years ago.

Dwalin's smirk was sly as he looked at the glowering Dwarf-king. "And who convinced you to help him?" he asked pointedly.

Thorin spluttered. "What makes you think—"

"It was Kili, wasn't it?" Bofur asked, a smug smile on his face. Thorin's deepening glower was answer enough, and he and Dwalin shared knowing glances. It was clear among the Company that the normally-stoic king was nevertheless very soft-hearted with his last-remaining nephew, and if Kili asked his uncle of something, Thorin would do it. It was that simple.

Of course, they all helped with Kili, hoping that he would further recover. He was getting better, but it was slow-going.

"You'll want someone to stay behind and watch over him, I take it," Dwalin said, and it wasn't a question.

Thorin nodded. "Yes."

He didn't like talking about his nephew as if he were a complete invalid and an idiot; Kili's body may be crippled but his mind certainly was not. He was just as intelligent an calculating as he had been before the battle and Fili's death, even if he was eerily silent now. And even if it was difficult for Kili to walk on his mangled foot, the fact still stood that he could.

Bofur stood and folded up the well-worn letter before handing it back to Thorin. "Well, I'm in," he said simply. "Ain't got nothing better to do than chase after some ruffians." His tone made it clear that he was also volunteering because he wanted to see Bilbo again, as he was rather fond of the hobbit.

Thorin scowled at that but did not challenge him. He didn't really care one way or the other.

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In a matter f seven hours, it was all decided. Thorin would take Dwalin, Bofur, and Nori with him to find Bilbo, and the others would stay behind to watch the kingdom and Kili.

Kili himself showed up again in Thorin's quarters as the Dwarf-king gathered up his belongings. He took a seat on the bed and waited until Thorin turned to him.

"What is it, Kili?"

In response, he handed Thorin a piece of paper with something written on it.

_Will you bring Bilbo and his nephew back here?_

Thorin sighed in exasperation—did everyone but him want to see Bilbo again? "I don't think so, Kili," he said as evenly as he could. "If you remember, I banished Baggins from Erebor."

Kili snatched the paper back with a n irritated scowl and quickly scribbled down a response.

_But you __didn't__ banish his nephew. I want to meet Bilbo's nephew._

Thorin blinked at the quick logic presented to him. Kili did have a point, he had to admit that, and when he read the second sentence he knew that his nephew had won the argument. If Kili wanted to meet the nephew of Bilbo Baggins who was he to say no? Deep down, too, he hoped that maybe meeting Bilbo again would bring Kili more out of his reclusive state.

Maybe seeing Bilbo again would do Kili some good.

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The four of them set off from Erebor on horseback at a gallop. Thorin wanted to find Bilbo as soon as possible, so he hoped to ride as far as they could every day with as little stopping as they could. It was the height of spring, for which he was thankful—he really didn't want to try and look for a wayward hobbit in a snowstorm.

"That letter was sent nearly three weeks ago," bofur said as the Lonely Mountain very slowly grew smaller behind them. His voice was soft but he spoke the thought bothering all of them.

"It was miraculous that it got here this soon,' Thorin agreed, and felt his stomach twist with a worry he tried to ignore.

Even now they could still be too late.


	4. Chapter 4

"_**Chapter 4"**_

A/N: I have to thank all of you who have reviewed the story so far! You're the reason I'm updating so quickly. I hope you're pleased with this one!

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Bilbo had been following the ruffians' trail for nearly a month and a half before he discovered where they were hiding. It was deep in the wild, surrounded by thick brush and to the east of Bree; it was almost nothing but a long cave dug into the side of a deep ravine, sheltered by an overhang that also conveniently partially-hid the entrance. He had only noticed it when he had lain on his stomach and looked over the edge of the ravine carefully, and even then it was rather difficult to spot. There was a faint trail that wound its way down but it looked treacherous, and Bilbo had to wonder how they had been able to take a struggling halfling down there with them.

Unless they had knocked Frodo out before they grabbed him. The idea of these unkempt, uncouth Men laying their hands on his nephew made his blood boil all over again.

As only a hobbit could, he had spied on them when he realized that they were staked out here, waiting for a moment that he could move in. That had been two days ago, and the wait was driving him crazy.

Just the other day one of the ruffians, a tall, willowy Man with scraggly blonde hair, had exited the cave following a shriek of pain, and Bilbo had seen bright red blood running down his fingers where he had been bitten.

"Lil' bastard," he had growled furiously. "I'll have the skin on his back for that…"

The Man's muttered curses had both heartened and frightened Bilbo. So, Frodo was still alive, and clearly fighting his captors; but it was also clear that his nephew was buying himself a bout of pain, even torture, every time he did.

Bilbo had to act now, before the ruffians decided that their captive hobbit was too much trouble to keep alive.

He had retreated into the woods after the Man disappeared into the cave again, where he had hidden his belongings. His pack lay buried beneath a pile of leaves and twigs, and Sting was nestled between two boulders, almost invisible unless you knew exactly where it was. He was just thankful that its blade was not glowing blue—Orcs and goblins were the_ last_ things he needed.

But as he crept closer to his hiding place he began to feel like something was off. Everything was quiet, for one thing—not even the birds were making a sound. Then there was the uneasy feeling running down his spine, like he was being watched. But he saw no one and heard nothing, and as a precaution he unassumingly grabbed some stones from the ground and held them tightly in his fist.

When he was on the far side of his hiding place he heard, faintly, the rustling of grass beneath the heavy tread of a boot to his right. Quick as lightning Bilbo had stood up straight and swung his right hand forward. The stone flew through the air silently, and he heard with satisfaction the sound of it hitting flesh. There was a quick, aborted cry of pain and surprise and then a muffled curse; but Bilbo was already up and running to the boulders. His hand gripped the hilt of Sting and he swung the blade forward—

And was met by another blade that glinted dangerously in the darkening light. The two blades met with a sharp ring that made the hair on Bilbo's neck stand up. Then the sword catching his dipped and whipped upward, and Sting's handle was torn from his grip. As Sting landed on the ground with a clatter, a stout, stocky figure barreled out of the trees and tackled the startled hobbit to the ground. Bilbo felt the weight of a mountain fall on him, and the air was driven out of him harshly in a "whoosh".

Shaking the stars from the fronts of his eyes, Bilbo blinked and slowly the hazy image of a familiar white grin grew clearer.

"_Bofur!_" he whispered in amazement—it was Bofur, ridiculous hat and all. His heart could have burst with relief; but then his body reminded him of the weight on him. "Get off my chest, please, Bofur," he groaned. His ribs felt crushed.

"My apologies, Master Hobbit," came the instant reply, and Bofur quickly leaped up. His smile was not in the least dimmed as he bent and helped Bilbo to his feet. "Be thankful, friend," he said cheerfully. "It could have been Bombur who sat on you!"

Massaging his sore chest, Bilbo couldn't help but chuckle—but then he noticed the Dwarf's left temple was bruising and a small trickle of blood ran down his cheek. "I hit you!"

Bofur shook his concern off. "It's nothing. I quite think I exacted my revenge by crushing your ribs, yes?"

Bilbo nodded ruefully.

"Bilbo!"

The familiar voice caught his attention and he had just enough time to brace himself before a second Dwarf careened up to him and swept him up into a fierce bear-hug.

"Nori!" he half-choked out, being twirled about in a most-undignified manner.

"Oi, Nori," Bofur said calmly, "Be careful with him, I just fell on him."

And instantly Bilbo felt himself being lowered to his feet again with Nori apologizing hurriedly. He looked at the two of them and he smiled his first smile in a month. "I can't believe it!" he said. "I didn't even know if you'd find me! Who all is with you? The whole Company?"

Bofur shook his head. "No. Just me and Nori and—"

"Hello, Baggins."

The stiff voice of Thorin Oakenshield interrupted Bofur, but the latter immediately shut his mouth and he and Nori turned to look at their king. Bilbo felt his mouth run dry. For the first time in fifty years he was face-to-face with the Dwarf who had banished him from his presence and from all of Erebor.

"_Get out! You are no longer welcome here among us or our people! You will leave for your homeland today, and I will never want the name of Bilbo Baggins spoken in my presence again!"_

Remembering Thorin's rage caused Bilbo to flinch, and he still had nightmares occasionally of the gold-maddened Dwarf-king holding him suspended above the rocks threatening to cast him upon them.

"Your Majesty," he said as evenly as he could, but his tone made it clear that the title was merely formal—there was nothing else behind it. Two could play this game, and Bilbo had all intentions of ignoring Thorin and his martyred pride if it hindered in his rescuing his nephew. All that mattered now was that Thorin had brought help.


	5. Chapter 5

"_**Chapter 5"**_

Thorin had not expected to feel so nervous to stand before Bilbo Baggins. He was a king, and he shouldn't be afraid of a _hobbit_, by Mahal! But even mentally abusing his perceived cowardice did not, and could not, change the final outcome—that when it came to it, Thorin Oakenshield was well and truly intimidated by this harmless-looking Halfling.

But Bilbo was not so harmless—a point thrust into light by the very fact that the hobbit had been ready to drive his blade through a perceived threat. It was a side of Bilbo Thorin had seen only once before, this true willingness to either maim or to kill, and that had been when Thorin himself had lain at the mercy of Azog the Pale Orc. His expression now was just as fierce as it had been then, a grave determined glint to his dark eyes, as if he wasn't afraid to fight anyone who looked at him the wrong way.

"Have you found where your nephew was taken?" he asked; he felt it best to hit the heart of the matter immediately. Bilbo's nephew, after all, was the only reason why he and his fellow Dwarves were here, and he hoped to get this done and over with as soon as possible so that he could head back to Erebor.

Bilbo's mannerisms changed instantly. Where he had been angry and on edge just a second before, now he looked suddenly very tired and troubled. He bent and grabbed Sting from where it lay before he looked up and met Thorin's gaze head-on. "Yes," he said brusquely, clearly short on patience. "I was just going to see if I could move in and do something about the current situation. Maybe defuse the tension a little, cut some fingers off, something of the like."

Bilbo's brusque, Dwarf-like talk almost made Thorin grin—he sounded oddly like Dwalin as he spoke—but at the same time it troubled him. He didn't think the hobbit would have been changed so much in fifty years to normally speak like that. Perhaps it was only worry for his nephew that was the cause of his oddly bloodthirsty thoughts of attack.

Before he could speak, however, he heard the heavy tread of Dwalin's boots behind him, and he turned to find the brown-bearded Dwarf walking through the trees to where they stood. His expression grew quietly pleased when seeing Bilbo's ruffled and rather dirty form, but he did not speak.

Bilbo did. "Dwalin!" He grinned again, and it eased some of the hardness of his expression. "I wasn't told you'd come along."

"Aye, I came along. Anytime ruffians need handling, I'm for it."

Bilbo nodded. "Glad to hear that." He turned back to Thorin. "There are four of them as far as I can see. They're hiding in a hidden cave down a ravine not fifty yards west of here. I haven't been able to see what weapons they have besides the swords they carry, but I suspect they have bows and quivers, because I've seen them bring in game."

"How long have they been there?" Dwalin asked.

Bilbo shrugged. "Maybe a week or two. It seems they've been moving over the past month and a half, staying a little while at a place and then departing after a few days. It seems they've decided to stay here for an extended stay, and I don't know why."

But he suspected, Thorin could see. The hobbit had seen the pits of the goblin caves, after all, and he had seen the carnage of Men. He suspected what a longer stay in a hidden place could probably mean. Thorin knew it too, but could not bring himself to speak of it aloud. Glancing at his companions he could see that the three other Dwarves were having similar thoughts, if the graveness and anger in their expressions was anything to go by. They seemed as eager as Bilbo to simply go and attack.

"Do you know why the Men took your nephew?"

Bilbo shook his head. "It has to be because of me," he said in a wavering voice. "It—they targeted me specifically, and they're using Frodo as leverage." He drew out the crinkled note he had torn off of the Men's arrow and handed it to Thorin, who read it quickly. When he looked up, his expression was impassive.

When he spoke, however, his words certainly were not. "Come on," he said quietly, but there was awakened rage lurking behind his tone. "We'll go now, and we'll make sure your nephew gets home."

"And the ruffians?" Dwalin said, and his expression was almost eager.

Thorin looked at him steadily. "To nab a child would signify you don't want to live anymore, isn't that correct?" he asked coolly.

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When Bilbo showed him the steepness of the ravine and the almost invisible entrance to the cave, he began to wonder how they would be able to sneak into it without alerting all of the ruffians in there. He had no way of knowing how deep the cave was, or where they were stashing things, or where they were holding Bilbo's nephew. He knew that one botched attempt, and they wouldn't succeed. Not from such an angle.

For a long moment, he lay quietly in thought, carefully peering over the edge. There was a small detail that he was missing, something that if he could just remember, it would help them succeed in this seemingly impossible endeavor. He was so still and silent for so long that Bilbo began to wonder if maybe he had fallen asleep; but then the Dwarf-king suddenly moved away from the edge with a satisfied-sounding grunt and stood in the cover of the trees. His eyes were bright and burning as he looked down at Bilbo.

"Do you still have your magic ring on you?"


	6. Chapter 6

"_**Chapter 6"**_

A/N: This chapter, the Dwarves and out favorite Hobbit will make their move!

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Bilbo wasn't sure how he had found himself here of all places, but he was. It wasn't a position he liked, but here he was, hanging from the edge of the ravine, slowly and carefully picking his way down the faint path to the entrance of the cave. His light step left no visible mark upon the crumbled stone, and he was walking with all of the silence that any hobbit could, careful to not dislodge any stone from its place in case the sound alerted the ruffians from their hiding place that someone was there. As Thorin had asked, Bilbo was wearing his gold ring, casting himself into the plane of invisibility, but he couldn't be too careful. Not with Frodo's life at stake, because if he believed anything about these ruffians, he knew that they wouldn't hesitate to kill an innocent life.

When the sun had finally sunk from the sky, and dusky twilight surrounded the land, Bilbo finally reached the entrance. He swallowed down his frantic heart and turned slightly to look behind him—sure enough, he saw Thorin and Bofur looking at the cave, watching for any movement. The sight of the Dwarves there made him calm slightly, knowing now that he had support in this rescue, and with an inaudible breath, he slipped into the entrance of the cave.

It was dank and almost utterly dark, with only a low lantern there to light the small, rather cramped space that Bilbo was standing in. The oppressive darkness made him think of the creature Gollum's cave in the Misty Mountains, and he shuddered to himself. He was in no small amount of danger now, just as he had been then, and even now there was still the likelihood of dying. The only comfort he had was that the ruffians here did not know of his presence, unlike Gollum had.

He crept farther along the side of the cave, ears straining for any sound of his inquiries; for a moment he saw nothing, but as he made his way in, he realized that the cave's tight entrance suddenly became quite spacey—the rest of the cave had a higher ceiling and its walls were naturally hewn out, perhaps by a long-dried river. In the dim light of the lantern, he saw finally one of the ruffians, a small, rather stocky fellow, broad of chest and thick-necked, with short-cropped, rather greasy hair. Bilbo nearly shrank back from the sight, but then realized that the Man was sleeping, his head lolling back onto the cave wall, his mouth open mid-snore.

Bilbo's face hardened. This was no time to become light-hearted or sympathizing, he reminded himself. These Men were evil, there could be no doubt, and they had threatened his Frodo's life. Thorin and the others were waiting just outside—all Bilbo had to do was draw the Men out above the ravine.

He was reaching for Sting's handle before he realized what he was doing. His fingers were brushing it before he pulled them back. He wasn't going to use his sword now—no, that was what the Dwarves were going to do. Instead, thinking quickly, the hobbit bent and carefully undid the laces of the Man's boots, and then tied all of the strings together. Then he backed away and pondered silently for a moment, then decided that he would travel deeper into the cave. He needed as much information as possible for Thorin, so as silently as ever he crept into the near-darkness.

He came upon the second Man wrapped in a tattered, stained blanket that ranked of mold and, he thought, blood. This was an older Man, grey-haired and grizzled, and clearly fast asleep like his companion.

There was a sharp turn then, but Bilbo did not follow it. Instead, he merely peeked across its edge, and saw the cave ended some ten or fifteen feet back. Two more of the ruffians sat on barrels, muttering to each other; and behind another few barrels, Bilbo saw the bare, hair-covered feet of a hobbit. His heart leaped into his mouth, and he had to fight to keep from moving forward, and instead he made himself back away. He could not jeopardize the plan, no matter how it hurt him to leave his nephew only a few feet away. And it was painful, so agonizing he felt like his heart would simply tear in two. Very carefully, he came out the way he came, almost unable to breathe; tears were choking his throat and burning in his eyes.

As quickly as he could he exited the cave and walked up the path, waiting until he was in the cover of the trees before he took off his ring. The world came sharply into focus again, but he barely noticed as Thorin and the others came up to him.

"The cave's bigger than I thought," he said, struggling to swallow back his tears. "Smaller at the entrance, but becomes roomier once you get inside about five feet. There's a Man asleep near the entrance, and another sleeping near the middle. Then there's two others awake in the very back around a corner."

"And your nephew?"

"With them in the back." Bilbo shook his head. "I couldn't get a good look at him, I don't know if he's been hurt, or—"

"We'll find that out after we take care of the ruffians," Thorin interrupted, but his tone was _almost_ soothing as he said it. "The sooner we take care of them the sooner we can get your nephew." He turned back to Bofur and Dwalin and Nori and drew his sword. "You ready?"

"Aye," Dwalin said immediately; Bofur and Nori nodded, no less eager.

"Good." Thoin turned back to Bilbo. "You know what to do?"

Bilbo nodded. "Yes." Again, he picked up a few choice stones from the ground and approached the edge of the ravine, nervously passing them from one hand to the other. Looking down to the entrance, he steeled his nerve and picking a target, swung his hand forward. As any hobbit's aim is true, his stone hit its mark—right in the edge of the cave's inner wall. The resounding _'crack!'_ from its hit made him wince, but it got the ruffians' attention. The Man whose shoes he had tied together leaped up, but quickly crashed to the floor again with a howl of shocked pain, which quickly alerted the others.

"What's happened?!" shouted one, rushing into view.

"There's someone out there!" the first Man retorted, wiping blood off his chin.

"Is there?" his companion asked darkly. "Seems t'me that the rat got all the ways in here and back, leastways, since I don' suppose you tie yer boots 'gether in yer sleep."

"S'pose it was that Shire rat that we warned off?" a third ruffian asked, one of those who had been awake. "Come to take our pet away?"

"Don' be a fool, Net!" the second, grizzled Man said harshly, glaring. "If'n Baggins came all the way here he'd've taken his brat with'm and stuck us."

Just at that moment, Bilbo threw another stone and it hit the stone right by their feet, making them all jump back—the first Man fell flat on his back again with a colorful curse. His companions made no move to help him up, instead glaring at the ravine's ledge. Their gazes swept over Bilbo twice, but of course they had no way of knowing he was there.

"Who's there?!" the third ruffian shouted, looking almost fearful. This was one with brittle nerves, Bilbo was pleased to see. He grinned to himself as he realized what fears he could play on this one. In reply, he let out a mad cackle, sounding very much like a crazy old spirit; but his vice also echoed strangely, as if from everywhere at once, echoing from the very ground itself. The third ruffian whitened.

"Spirits!" he cried, very faint.

The grizzled old Man looked at him furiously. "Yer a yella-livered coward, boy," he growled, "if you believe that." He drew his sword, a crude but viscous-looking blade, and stepped outside. But the third ruffian stood trembling, and now the first Man, picking himself up, looked rather uneasy too. The second threatened them with his sword. "Yer gonna follow me out," he growled, "and if you don', I'm gonna stick your gut! Git goin'!" He made the two younger ruffians stumble in front of him. "Draw yer swords!" he snarled. "If'n there's trouble yer not gonna use yer hands!"

Bilbo took his chance. Running swiftly towards the Dwarves' hiding places, he let out another mad laugh, making enough noise to alert the Men where he was.

"I done tol' you!" the third ruffian cried, "there's ghosts here! We done disturbed 'em, an' now they're after us!"

"Ghosts aren't real, boy," the second Man growled. "There's sumthin' goin' on here. Prob'ly that there's someone here to get the brat, and if'n it is Baggins we'll kill 'im and be done with it!"

But Bilbo, his job done, was already speeding back to the edge of the ravine and as quickly as he could he was climbing down the trail. Just as he has reached the edge of the entrance, he heard one of the Men scream in pain, and Dwalin's voice called out in a warrior's call. The clanging of swords rang through the night, and he knew that the Dwarves had it all under control. He entered the cave and, seeing no one, he slipped his ring off and put into his pocket.

Just as he had turned the corner of the cave, however, he heard the sound of feet behind him, and he realized his mistake too late. Before he could so much as reach for sting's handle, he felt the cold tip of a sword press into his back.

"Well, well, well," he heard a gravelly voice drawl. "What do we have here?"


	7. Chapter 7

"_**Chapter 7"**_

A/N: Before reading this chapter, I will warn those of you who don't like violence that there is a lot of it here, and there will be pretty graphic descriptions of abuse and torture mentioned in this part.

For those of you who do read on, you will finally see our first resolution, but the story is only about half done at this point in time, so you still have plenty to look forward to!

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"Now," came the slow, triumphant order, "turn around and drop your weapon."

Cursing his stupidity, Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut in aggravation. The tip of the sword dug deeper into his back, tearing the fine cloth of his jacket, making him jump.

"Now!" came the harsh order.

Very slowly, wishing that he hadn't been so careless, he unclasped the belt of his scabbard and carefully let it drop, where it landed on the floor of the cave with a clatter. The absence of his belt was a terrible feeling, but he could do nothing about it. Following that, he slowly turned on his heel until he was facing the ruffian, and had to look far up before he met the gaze of the one in front of him.

It was the blonde-haired Man he had seen outside the cave those two days ago. The scraggly blonde hair was colored a brown in the dark, but his eyes were glinting maliciously. His hand, Bilbo noticed, was bandaged.

"So you're the ratling's uncle," he said softly, calculating. "Bilbo Baggins, isn't it?" His smile was nasty. "We warned you off, didn't we? Said you'd be making a big mistake if you followed us. But I suppose you brought help. Your buddies are taking care of the others, I take it." He raised his blade up to Bilbo's face. "Walk." And again, Bilbo had no choice but to obey, slowly backing up farther into the cave. His heart was beating frantically and only worsened as he realized that he was getting closer to where Frodo was lying.

The ruffian seemed to sense the drift of his thoughts, because his gaze swiftly looked in the same direction. "Still alive, ratling?" he called. "You know how displeased I'll be if you aren't."

Bilbo risked a split second glance over his shoulder, desperate to spot any sign of his nephew's response—and was awarded for his trouble; not in words, for Frodo did not speak, but his feet, still visible from behind the barrels, moved from sight.

The Man jabbed him in the chest with his sword. "None of that, now," he growled. "You'll see plenty of him soon enough—rather more of him than you ever wanted to see."

All the while Bilbo had been backing up, and finally he drew level with where his nephew was, and he was able to see. The sight before him made his heart stop.

Frodo lay half on his stomach and half on his side, awkwardly bracing himself with one elbow and a hand. He was pale and his face drawn, and his expressive eyes were terrified as he spotted the Man standing in sight. With a mix of horror and fury, Bilbo saw why he was lying in such a position—his nephew's back was a torn up mess, clearly the victim of a whipping, and a rather harsh one at that. He was certainly injured more than that, but Bilbo found he didn't quite have the nerve to look more closely, and instead looked up at the ruffian with a surprisingly cold, almost murderous glare that would have normally stopped anyone in their tracks.

The Man, however, was either made of sterner stuff than most or he was just incredibly stupid, because he merely smirked and the tip of the sword dug even deeper into his chest. "You just had to follow us, didn't you, rat," he said softly. "Just had to ignore my warnings. You have only yourself to blame for what will happen now to your kin."

Bilbo _really_ wanted Sting back; he _really_ wanted to stab the ruffian in the foot and watch him howl and hop around. But what was real was utterly different from what he wished, and he could only hope that Thorin and the others would come in time to recover his blunder. How could he be so _stupid_?

The Man's eyes had drifted past him again, and the darkness of his smirk deepened, promising pain. "I wasn't exaggerating, either, when I said that you would be seeing more of him than you wanted—because I'll split him open along the length of his stomach, and you'll witness him scrabbling for a breath through torn lungs before I do the same to you."

Perhaps it was this last sentence, this latest threat to his lad's life, that broke something inside Bilbo; or perhaps his desperation simply became too much to bear. Whatever the reason, he was moving before he even realized he had—not towards the Man, but tearing himself away from the point of that wicked-looking blade and leaping to his nephew's side.

The Man was prepared for that, however, and as Bilbo moved his foot snaked out and knocked the hobbit's legs out from under him, dumping Bilbo flat on his back with no air in his lungs.

The sword glinted in the flickering lantern light as it descended as fast as a striking snake—straight towards Bilbo's upturned face.

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Thorin had had an ominous feeling shuddering down his spine since he and Dawlin had taken down the last ruffian, but he couldn't place why. Turning to Bofur, who was hastily cleaning blood from the blades of his dagger, he did a head-count of the bodies. One—two—three…. Why was he feeling like he was missing something? Then he remembered Bilbo's earlier words.

"_There's a Man asleep near the entrance, and another sleeping near the middle. Then there's two others awake in the very back around a corner."_

"Damn it!" he snarled, realizing his mistake. There were four ruffians, not just these three! The last one must have stayed in the cave, which meant—"Come on!" he exclaimed, and his voice was suddenly rough with fear. "Bilbo's in trouble!" He knew that the hobbit was wily, but a hobbit against a fully-grown Man was like a pony facing off against a warg. In record time, minding his feet only little, he led the others down the broken path and as quietly as he could he rushed into the entrance of the cave, his cavern-bred eyes making it easy for him to see in the near-darkness. The sight that greeted him made him gasp.

Bilbo was flat on his back on the floor, Sting lying uselessly on the ground several feet away; and the Man towering above him was swinging his sword down right at the hobbit, intent on the kill. Thorin knew that any attempt he and the others would try to make would come too late, but even so he reached for the hilt of his sword again—

And stopped in shock, because even as he watched the sword fly towards its mark, Bilbo's right hand reached out, palm-out, and deflected the broad side of the blade to the left—a maneuver that the Dwarves had taught him. The hobbit did not escape unscathed, however; even though he was able to hit the blade with his wrist, the sharp edge of it managed to slice his palm as it was jerked to the side. But the hobbit kept on going, ignoring the pain it must have generated, and one of his large, furry feet kicked out and ruthlessly punched the ruffian in the groin, which was the highest point he could reach.

The Man fell back with a howl of pain, and Thorin winced with what in any other situation would have been sympathy; now, however, he only drew his sword as the ruffian stumbled back, one hand clutching the front of his pants, but his expression was frankly murderous now.

"Little bastard!" he screamed. "I'll peel the skin from your bones-!"

But then his scream ended mid-word, and his eyes widened with a new pain, his expression registering shock.

For a long moment that seemed to last an eternity, the scraggly-haired Man seemed to teeter on his feet, a look of agonized surprise on his face before, with a harsh gasp, he toppled forward, falling limply on his face with one of Bofur's daggers sticking out of his back.

Thorin and his companions wasted no time. In less than an instant they were all rushing forward and climbing over the Man's lifeless body. Bofur none-too-gently ripped his weapon from the broad back and spat on looking down spat on it, his dark eyes smoldering with hate.

The first thing that hit Thorin about the cave was the smell. It smelled of stale sweat, soured blood, and positively reeked of fear. Then he turned the bend of the cave, where Bilbo ad crawled after the Man had fallen, and the sight that greeted him made him start dead in his tracks.

Bilbo was kneeling on the cold unforgiving floor, his voice soft but breaking as his fingers stroked the dark hair of the hobbit he held in his arms. Thorin swallowed; it was clear they had finally found Bilbo's missing nephew, and it was also dreadfully clear that he had been ill-used by the ruffians while in their captivity. The young hobbit's back was a ripped up mess of tattered skin and caked blood, and his stomach was lined with the raised whelps of a whip. That wasn't the end of the terrible remnants of such violence, but Thorin did not care to see the rest at the moment. The small, slight body trembled and shuddered, both with fright and with cold; but there was no sound of tears or even breathing from the Shireling. The sight of such wanton torture made Thorin furious, and he knew that even if he had kept the Men alive they would not have remained so much longer.

"It's alright, darling," Bilbo was whispering automatically, his soft vice loud in the utter silence of the cave. "I'm here, right here, you're safe—"

Thorin stepped closer, and saw the young hobbit flinch in Bilbo's arms, stopping mid-movement and suddenly stock-still where he lay. Thorin had seen such things happen with captives frequently threatened and beaten: fear completely overrode thought and the body froze in hopes of avoiding punishment.

Bilbo looked up at him and the naked terror in his expression was heart-breaking. He clearly had no idea what to do in a situation like this, but it to Thorin's surprise he found it warmed his heart to realize that the older Baggins could still look to _him_ to know what to do.

He turned to Nori and Bofur and Dwalin. "Put your weapons down and slide your bulkiest armor off," he ordered them quietly. He himself backed away from the two hobbits and did the same. When he was done with that, and feeling oddly bare, he walked back over, very carefully, to Bilbo's side.

Bilbo's nephew had gone still by the time all the Dwarves were shed of their more disturbing articles of clothing, but he still occasionally trembled. When hearing Thorin's footsteps, the dark head swung towards him and the Dwarf-king finally met the mysterious Frodo Baggins face-to-face.

The first thing he noticed were the wide, frightened eyes that locked with his, eyes that he saw even in the dim light were a brilliant cobalt blue; the second was the ugly purple and black smudge that marred the skin of his left eye. His skin seemed to be white, naturally so, but the color did nothing to hide the awful discoloration of bruises and scrapes scattered on his torso and limbs. In looks, he looked similar to Bilbo in the set of his mouth and chin, but his features were finer than his uncle's, the nose thinner and straighter, the jaw more delicate. And on all of these were the same signs of abuse; worst of all there was a half-healed wound running jagged below his left eye, painful-looking and red as it slowly closed. Thorin thought he would always bear a scar from it.

It made him almost sick to his stomach to be witness to such violence. After all, who could possibly want to hurt such an innocent? Looking back at his companions, he saw the same fury and sadness reflected in their expressions and realized then that they had all somehow decided that they would guard this Shireling with their lives.

Bilbo's fingers were still gently combing his nephew's curls. "Frodo," he said softly, his vice still choked with tears. "You're safe now, you're with friends. These Dwarves are my friends, they helped me find you. They won't hurt you."

_No,_ Thorin thought to himself, _we wouldn't hurt you, but a hobbit could damn well break your heart._


	8. Chapter 8

"_**Chapter 8"**_

A/N: This whole chapter was typed up while I listened to 80s music. Yeah.

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They left the cave as soon as they could, but first they had to take care of their wounded. Bofur, who had experience with treating and binding wounds, washed Bilbo's hand thoroughly before wrapping it in clean white gauze. As Thorin and Dwalin and Nori worked to remove the Men's bodies, he then turned to Frodo, who would not leave his uncle's hold.

The Dwarf clicked his tongue, feeling a little helpless looking at the little one's back. It was such a torn-up, blood-crusted mess he wasn't sure what good he could do. He glanced at Bilbo seriously. "I'll do what I can," he said simply, "but I can't promise anything. He needs to reach Erebor as soon as possible so we can work on those wounds more thoroughly."

Bilbo looked up at him, startled. "Erebor?" he repeated.

Bofur nodded, looking swiftly at Thorin. "Aye. There's a certain princeling who wants to see you again and meet your nephew." He met Bilbo's gaze steadily as he watched the hobbit's face brighten with hope and astonishment. "You have been missed, my friend," he continued softly, "even if our king refuses to admit it."

Washing Frodo's wounds was difficult. Bofur was as gentle as possible, but it still stood that he had to remove the crusted blood lest it lead to infection, and that meant scrubbing. It was painful, Bofur knew, and it made him feel terrible putting the lad through any more pain, but he knew he would rather not run the risk of infection. What really concerned him, however, was the fact that throughout all of that—the washing, the disinfecting, the wrapping—Frodo stayed utterly silent, not even allowing a gasp to escape his mouth as his fingers clutched Bilbo's in a death grip.

Thorin noticed the same thing later. He and Dwalin had thrown the Men's' bodies over the edge of the ravine, not believing they deserved the honor of a decent burial, while Nori had busied himself picking up their abandoned supplies. Then they had decided who would do what as they left. Although Frodo was clearly unwilling to leave Bilbo's touch, it still stood that Bilbo simply couldn't carry him so far, so it fell to Thorin. The Dwarf-king was extremely gentle picking the hobbit up, trying his hardest to avoid the gauze-wrapped back, he still managed to aggravate some injuries; but although such movements were undoubtedly very painful, the young hobbit refused to let any sound so much as escape his mouth.

Such behavior reminded Thorin of Kili, and he couldn't deny the fact that it concerned him. The circumstances surrounding Bilbo's nephew and Kili were completely different, but it seemed the end result was the same, with silence greeting inquiries and a strange aloofness clashing with normal cheer. What made such a realization worse was the fact that Frodo was as stiff as a board as Thorin held him, and it wasn't just to avoid irritating his wounds further. As the Dwarf-king reminded himself, however, Frodo had never met him before and after such a brutal experience it was frankly a miracle that he was even allowing Thorin—an utter stranger—to hold him.

"Your uncle was near-frantic looking for you," he suddenly said softly in the hobbit's pointed ear. The small body jumped in his arms but even though Frodo met his gaze with fearful eyes, he could see that the lad was still listening. "Certainly wasn't acting anything like the cool and normally unruffled Baggins _I_ knew." He could not say 'know' because how could he possibly profess to knowing someone whom he hadn't seen in fifty years? But his carefully-flippant remark made the fear lessen in those expressive eyes as curiosity took its place—just as Thorin had hoped it would. "Now don't tell me your uncle never told you about his Adventure," he said with just the hint of a teasing smile. They had finally reached the top of the ravine and Frodo shifted slightly to look confusedly at Bilbo, who had heard every word Thorin had said, and in answer shook his head mutely.

"We'll have to remedy that, won't we?" Bofur chuckled from where he stood beside them. "Shame on you, Bilbo, for not telling him! How else will he find out how extraordinary you are?" He turned to look at the younger hobbit with a mischievous smile. "He was appointed our Company's burglar and he proved himself to be very talented being so—by facing down a _dragon_ no less!" If there was any tension brought up about "burgling" it was hidden behind a smile, and the Dwarf aimed a swift, almost challenging look at Thorin as he mentioned the dragon.

But Thorin could not be angry as he realized what Bofur was doing—because one look at Frodo and he saw that the little one was hopelessly lost in this unheard-of tale, his fear temporarily banished in the face of pure wonder and curiosity.

But he still didn't make a sound, and Thorin knew the fear would return.

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"I can take him from you now."

Bilbo's voice was soft in the dark dusk, but still seemed impossibly loud for being outdoors. The five—or six—of them had stopped for the remainder of the night, and were currently laying out bedrolls and blankets, readying themselves for a few hours' rest.

Thorin turned to find Bilbo looking at him expectantly, his arms already out to take his nephew. The Dwarf-king looked down at the young hobbit now slumbering in his arms, his exhaustion having finally caught up with him. Bofur and the other Dwarves had kept up a steady explanation of the more light-hearted exploits of their Quest to reclaim Erebor, and very quickly Frodo had succumbed to sleep.

Feeling oddly reluctant to do so, Thorin did as Bilbo asked and handed the lad to his uncle; his arms felt oddly empty as he watched Bilbo carefully lay his nephew on one of the bedrolls and wrap a blanket around him for warmth in the chilly Spring air. Then he turned to the other Dwarves.

"Dwalin, you'll take the watch. We'll set off at first light."


	9. Chapter 9

"_**Chapter 9"**_

A/N: Switching the view of the story to Bofur's temporarily! I'm so glad you all are still enjoying the story, and hopefully you'll like this chapter just as much.

**Seafarer**: I do believe that Thorin is quite taken with our little hobbit, and (gasp) it's not a slash story! To be perfectly honest I wrote this also as a protest as the several "Thilbo" slash stories that are written. Can't we have an enjoyable hurt/comfort story that _isn't _slash? And keeping you wondering about this story is my revenge—I feel the same way with "Trouble With Bracegirdles"! ;)

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The day after a wounding was always the hardest, Bofur knew. The skin and muscles around the torn skin would stiffen, and it only became worse the larger the wound. Bilbo's nephew was no exception. Frodo had slept surprisingly soundly over the night, with Bilbo wrapped around him, holding him close as to keep nightly terrors away, but when the little one had woken it had been to a stiffened, aching back that wouldn't even allow him to raise his arms up to shoulder-level. Bofur had been sure from where he stood watching that this would finally garner some kind of sound from the lad, but even though Frodo's mouth was drawn with obvious pain, he swallowed down his voice and did nothing but look at his uncle as if asking Bilbo to make it stop.

Such an open plea made Bilbo's own mouth wrench with his own sense of agony, made worse by the very cruel and very simple fact that he _couldn't_ make it stop.

But perhaps Bofur could help. He hated seeing the lad in such a state and kneeled beside the two hobbits. "I'm sure I can mix together something to at least dull the pain, if that's alright with you," he said quietly.

Bilbo turned a hopeful expression his way. "Would you?" he asked in relief; but then he frowned a little. "How would you know what to make that would dull the pain?"

Bofur grinned. "Very simple, Burglar," he said. "I've hurt myself several times carpenting—comes with the territory, you might say. I've had to dull my nerves to keep working."

Now Bilbo looked horrified. "Not ale, surely!" he protested.

The accusation made Bofur chuckle. "No, not ale," he replied, "though once we reach Erebor that may change." He winked down at Frodo, who was still silently watching their friendly sparring in confusion.

"I'll have you know," Bilbo sniffed with his old sense of stuffy decorum, "that my lad is not even of age yet. Minors in the Shire may have a half-mug of ale there, but I'll run you down before I let Frodo have a taste of that liquid fire you call a drink!" But there was the barest hint of a smile hidden in his frown that spoke of his own sense of humor in their discussion.

"Ah, you're just sore that you couldn't hold yours when you tried it," Bofur replied calmly, and he stood. "I'll go get something together for your boy. Be back soon."

He searched in the woods surrounding their hidden campsite, searching for the herbs that would help. As he searched, he was joined by Dwalin, who had followed him silently.

"It is good for our Burglar that we found his lad alive," Dwalin said gruffly, and his fingers absent-mindedly brushed the hilt of his sword.

Bofur nodded, focusing on his search. Grunting in satisfaction when he found what he was looking for, he drew his dagger and carefully cut off the head of the plant. "Good for us, too," he grunted, standing. "Our king needs hobbits in his life again, even if he won't admit it." He glanced meaningfully at the other Dwarf. "I assume we're all in this together, then?"

Dwalin nodded. "We'll get Thorin to lift Bilbo's banishment."

Bofur smiled thoughtfully, thinking about a certain young, dark-haired halfling. "I don't think we'll have to work too hard on that."

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Mixing the herbs into a broth-like drink was easy.

Convincing Frodo to drink it was another matter entirely. The young hobbit stubbornly refused to open his mouth, eyeing the cup distrustfully even as Bilbo told him it was perfectly safe. "It's just to dull the pain, dearling," he murmured, running his fingers through his nephew's dark hair. "We've all had to take it before." But when Frodo still refused to drink, Bilbo became unnaturally stern. "Frodo Baggins, what would your mother think of you refusing things that _helped_ you?"

To the Dwarves' confusion, the young hobbit flinched as if Bilbo had cursed him, a confusion only deepened when he listened to his uncle. Bofur thought that the older hobbit's remark had drudged up a mountain of old anguish that dealt purely with the emotional but did not want to ask about it while in Frodo's presence, a choice only strengthened by the miserable look on Bilbo's face after he said it.

"Will it be too hard for him to ride?" Thorin asked Bofur from where he stood watching.

Bofur thought about it carefully. "I don't think it will," he said slowly, "if he rides in front of us—but he must be _facing_ the person he's with, otherwise it'll cause more aggravation to his back."

So when they set out on their ponies, Bilbo hitched a ride behind Bofur until they could stop and purchase an extra pony; and Frodo rode with Thorin as he was most familiar with the Dwarf-king. From his position in front of Thorin, the little one could watch behind him, and Bofur saw his eyes frequently looking at those behind. His gaze mysteriously seemed to skip Bilbo every time, and Bofur realized with a sinking heart that maybe Bilbo's choice words had done some damage after all, if the nephew had lost some kind of trust in his uncle. There was a sudden listlessness in Frodo's eyes now, something that Bofur did not like.

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"You brought up his _dead mother_?" Thorin asked blankly several hours later. The small company had stopped for the night, having made it several miles already. The Dwarves were seated around a small but warm fire; Frodo had fallen asleep and Bofur had taken his chance to ask about what had caused his nephew's strange reaction.

Bilbo nodded miserably. "I felt wretched doing so,' he replied quietly, "but I didn't know what else to say."

"Well, it sure wasn't the right thing!" Dwalin snapped from where he stood.

"He's right," Nori agreed, looking at Bilbo as if he'd never seen him before.

"What was so bad about it, then?" Bilbo asked stiffly, miffed that they were so mysterious in their reactions.

Thorin's face was bleak as he looked away, and Dwalin and Nori refused to speak. Finally, Bofur sighed. "Bilbo, the lad's just been rescued from a highly traumatic circumstance in his part," he explained as gently as he could.

"You think I don't know that-?!" Bilbo started to exclaim, looking furious at this perceived accusation.

"You must not, if you said that to him," Dwalin growled.

"He means, Baggins," Thorin interjected with a warning glance at Dwalin, "is that you made a grave mistake in bringing up such a sore subject. An innocent child being threatened with death by his captives on a daily basis is then reminded of his earlier loss by a loved family member?" He shook his head. "Right now, your lad must be wishing he was with his mother instead of suffering with us."


	10. Chapter 10

"_**Chapter 10"**_

A/N: Finally, we'll get a look into what Frodo's thinking (he still won't be speaking for a while yet), and just remember that he isn't thinking rationally when he thinks about his parents' reactions if they were still alive!

To **Saren-Dipety**: You asked what age Frodo is in this story. He's about twenty-two in hobbit years, but I'm also one of the LotR fans who believe that hobbits mature two-thirds slower than Men, so he's the equivalent of fourteen in Man years. Hope that helps!

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Frodo's aloofness to Bilbo and anything his uncle did persisted through most of their journey to Erebor, with the young hobbit choosing instead to gravitate towards Bofur and, surprisingly, Thorin, who seemed as taken aback by such a development as the others. Of all of the Dwarves he seemed most wary of Dwalin, whose appearance and rather gruff demeanor clearly intimidated him; but as the weeks continued and they traveled closer and closer to Erebor he slowly warmed up to the large, burly Dwarf and soon was glued as close to his side as all the others.

His nephew's sudden unwillingness to even look at Bilbo clearly made the old hobbit miserable and confused. He had been told his mistake but now Frodo was not allowing him chance to make things right, and the thought of perhaps losing his lad forever to such a careless blunder terrified him.

They were four days ride from the Lonely Mountain when Thorin finally had enough of the tension between uncle and nephew, and of Bilbo's silent moping. Carrying Frodo in his arms, he looked over at Bofur and ordered them to stop. Without hesitation he handed the lad over to the other Dwarf, dismounted, and then marched right back to where Bilbo was riding in the rear.

"Come with me," he ordered gruffly, and his expression brooked no argument.

Frodo's gaze followed them as his uncle and the Dwarf disappeared into a small grove of trees, far enough away that they would not be overheard but close enough if trouble arose. Although he was silent—a silence he was terrified of breaking, even with the ruffians dead—he was not suddenly stupid. He observed even if he didn't talk, and he knew his uncle hadn't meant to hurt him by speaking the way he had. He knew that Bilbo only cared for him—loved him, even—but he didn't _want_ to be reminded of his mother. The memory of her smile and lovely voice only brought him shame, thinking of how utterly appalled she would be in him if she had known he had given in to the Men who had held him captive, allowing them to tame his tongue and beat the fight out of him. How ashamed would Uncle Bilbo be if _he_ were to find out?

The night his uncle had mentioned Primula Baggins, Frodo had wanted to give in then, and just allow himself to let go of life and join his dead parents so that he wouldn't have to face the shame of living the way he was. He hurt physically, mentally, and emotionally, and he had no idea how to continue on. The Dwarves had helped him a little, telling him tales and making him smile. It seemed like they were making it a contest to see who could make him smile the most, and he was able to show them a couple by the end of their journey.

He just hoped that Thorin didn't yell at his uncle. Shouldn't the Dwarf know that Uncle really hadn't meant anything by what he'd said?

"Your uncle will be perfectly fine, lad," he heard the Dwarf holding him, Bofur, say suddenly. He looked up to see Bofur grinning down at him. "He's not going to allow His Royal Grumpiness to intimidate him. Bilbo's faced down a _dragon_ after all!"

Frodo wasn't sure about the story of his uncle facing down a dragon, nor did he really care at the moment. The dragon, whether true or not, was supposedly dead and unable to burn his uncle to a crisp. His Royal Grumpiness, however, was _very_ much alive, and if he didn't murder his uncle with his bare hands if he got irritated enough, then his smoldering eyes would surely burn Uncle Bilbo as much as dragon's fire could, and then where would he be? Could a king be tried for murder?

He sent such a sarcastic look up at Bofur that the Dwarf chuckled. "You don't need to talk to make your point, do you?"

_Not really_, Frodo thought to himself, then shook himself when he realized he was still in sarcastic mode. That wouldn't help with Uncle Bilbo, and His Royal Grumpiness wouldn't lessen his scowling either. Frodo had rarely seen anyone with such a proclivity to look, well,_ grumpy_, except maybe old Odo Proudfoot, who could always be seen sweeping his walkway and scowling at anyone who walked past. Frodo secretly thought that Proudfoot was just doing that for show; but the Dwarf-king seemed to know no other expression.

At least Bofur could smile, and even though Nori was often quiet he still had a talent for sparring with words. Dwalin had told him that Nori was nothing but a thief where they lived, a true-blooded criminal, but he hadn't seen anything like that yet.

Dwalin himself really didn't have much room to talk, in the young hobbit's opinion, but he wouldn't say that aloud.

'… worried about Thorin?"

Bofur's voice brought him out of his thoughts, and he had to think back about what the Dwarf had been talking about before to know what he was talking about now. Ah, yes, mentioning the dragon and his worrying about his uncle's soon-to-be-legendary death by spontaneous combustion.

And Bofur was still talking, as cheerful as always. "If Thorin's the one you're worried about, then I can understand it a little more. Bilbo could give our king a run for his money if he was in temper, and could Bilbo Baggins ever throw a temper!" He chuckled again, but suddenly became somber. "Aye, Thorin's more serious than most, but he's a good heart, and he has good reason to be so. His has been a hard road, and it's been harder now with having to rule Erebor with no heir of his own blood, with his nephew Kili hurt by the Battle of the Five Armies." The Dwarf looked down at him. 'You'll be meeting Kili at Erebor—he's the one who convinced Thorin to come help your uncle find you, too."

This unexpected piece of information caught Frodo's full attention. So Thorin had a nephew he cared for just like Uncle Bilbo cared for him? And that nephew had been injured like he had been? Was that why Thorin was so grim? The thought of that made him worry—what if Bilbo became like that because of him? He didn't want his normally cheerful uncle to become so serious that he could never smile.

So he decided that even if he still wasn't the happiest with Uncle Bilbo, he'd make him smile all the same.

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It was a good thirty minutes before Bilbo and Thorin came back, with Thorin having finally vented some of his frustration. Bilbo walked with a hung head, thinking he was only receiving his due. To see the normally spirited hobbit so meek now was disconcerting, and Bofur clearly frowned his dislike of this new development. He didn't want_ two_ hobbits moping now!

But before any of the Dwarves could even so much as move, Frodo broke the tension. Still sitting in front of Bofur in the saddle, he motioned to let down, and Bofur did so. They all watched in silence that became confused as the young hobbit limped painfully over to his uncle and before Bilbo could do so much as open his mouth to speak, his nephew had buried his face in the front of his vest and his hands burying themselves in the cloth in a tight hold.

And Bilbo's face lit up with the largest, brightest smile he had given in two months, a sight that the Dwarves had not seen before. They watched for a moment, but then respectfully turned away to give uncle and nephew time alone as Bilbo knelt and drew Frodo close in an almost choking, but no less loving, embrace.

Thorin walked slowly up to Bofur, his expression wry. "What did you say to our littlest companion while I was talking his uncle's ears off?"

Bofur merely shrugged, but his smile was secret, and smug, enough.


	11. Chapter 11

"_**Chapter 11"**_

A/N: I'm so sorry about not updating yesterday—my internet temporarily shut off until late last night and by then I was in bed, so…

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Frodo was riding with Bilbo when the Lonely Mountain became close enough that it seemed to tower above them, still a day away from Dale's gates. The young hobbit sat securely in front of his uncle, his back finally healed enough that he could face forward in the saddle, and he looked properly awed as he stared up at the mountain's height. It was a far cry from the gentle rolling hills and streams of the Shire, but Bilbo had no doubt that his lad would grow to love Erebor just as much as he had.

"It looks much better than it did before," Bilbo remarked from where he rode beside Thorin.

The Dwarf-king raised a sarcastic eyebrow. "It took us several years to rid the Halls of Smaug's filth and destruction," he said, "and then we had to rebuild some of the wings and excavate some of the mines that had collapsed."

"But since that's what dwarves naturally do," Bilbo answered smoothly, "then it mustn't have been too horrible." His reply had a deliberate barb hidden in its tone, just as Thorin's had, which only showed just how much the two of them weren't getting along. Even though Thorin had become quite fond of Frodo, Bilbo knew that the Dwarf still held a heavy grudge against _him_ for stealing the Arkenstone, and it didn't look like Thorin would be forgiving him any time soon.

It was a belief only cemented when the Dwarf-king swung towards him angrily. "It would be wise for you to hold your tongue," he warned, and missed the way Frodo suddenly flinched, "as it is only by Kili's request that you are here at all." With that he kicked his mount into a steady canter and rode ahead.

Bilbo sighed and shook his head. There would never be forgiveness on Thorin's part, of that he was sure. He was urging his own mount forward before he realized that something wasn't right with his nephew.

"Frodo?"

With a jolt of surprise and nervousness he saw that the young hobbit was white with fear and he was shaking almost as much as he had the night they'd found him, his small hands gripping the saddle horn in a fierce grip and his gaze turned inward. Trapped in a memory, Bilbo realized, and not a good one at that. With a quick shout he drew the Dwarves up short; then he slipped from the pony's back and gripped his nephew's hands. "Frodo! It's all right, you're safe!" For just a moment, he looked behind him where the Dwarves waited, but whether he was asking for help or just glaring at them he didn't know. It was Dwalin dismounting that seemed to jerk Frodo back to reality, and still caught in the remnants of fear he tried to escape Bilbo's hold, and slipped from the pony's back. Bilbo barely managed to catch him and could feel his nephew trembling in his arms.

"What's wrong, Frodo?" he asked desperately, hoping his vice wouldn't crack from the fear he was feeling.

In response, his nephew's eyes flew to Thorin, but then very quickly looked down, a faint flush coloring his face. But Bilbo pieced together what that wordless look meant.

"Was it Thorin telling me to hold my tongue?"

That was definitely it, because Frodo paled again and nodded wildly. Bilbo's own stomach twisted painfully when he wondered just what threats had been made to his lad to make him so unsettled by such a threat, but decided this wasn't the time or the place to ask. Frodo wouldn't look at him, and his breathing was becoming panicked again, so Bilbo kneeled and gripped the small shaking hands in his own.

"He wasn't meaning anything by that," he explained gently. "He wasn't threatening me, or you, and he wouldn't." He almost winced at the blatant lie he had just said, but there was no way that he was going to tell Frodo now of the time Thorin had threatened his life. "You're among friends now, and these are the best Dwarves you could have to protect you. You know that." He turned to look at the Dwarves, and the fury in his gaze nearly made them flinch. "Right?"

Hastily they all nodded, but Bilbo noticed that Bofur winked at Frodo, who had looked up at him and who now smiled a little.

Later that day, when it was turn for Bofur to hold the little hobbit, Bilbo swore he heard the Dwarf say quietly to his nephew, "Now do you see why your uncle can hold his own against His Royal Grumpiness?"

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The next day, they arrived at Dale's gates. Bilbo had to admit that the city of Men really did look remarkable now, not soot covered or torn down into crumbling ruins. The Dwarves really had done a good job, so much so that he was anxious to see how Erebor looked. Several families of Men, complete with youngsters running around or hiding shyly in their mothers' skirts, came out to look at the passing group of Dwarves and the rather odd sight of two halflings riding with them. Thorin didn't stop, though, and hurried them along until finally they reached the opened door of the Lonely Mountain. Frodo's eyes had grown larger the deeper they went through the city and now he craned his head to look at the tall, grave statues guarding the entrance to the doors, still scorched by fire and lashed by a dragon's tale. He certainly looked properly awed—so much so that he would probably walk into something because he was looking around.

Bilbo decided just to play it safe and carry him through the entrance as stable boys came to put the ponies away for the evening. His nephew was still walking with a noticeable limp, although he didn't know why. His leg hadn't been bleeding, and there hadn't been any need to wrap a wound up; Bofur had said that they would have to wait until they reached Erebor before they could really inspect all of Frodo's wounds and scrapes. His back was still red and irritated, and if he sat too long in front of someone in the saddle his bandages would be stained by the end of the day.

"Wounds that deep will take more than a couple weeks to heal," Nori had said in response to Bilbo's concerned questions. "You can be sure of that."

He was surprised when Thorin offered to carry him. "You've had a long ride," was all he said, and Bilbo found that he couldn't dispute that. He really was tired, and he wanted to just sit and rest for a moment, so Bilbo really didn't fight him. Anyway, even if the Dwarf still disliked Bilbo's company, he had taken to Frodo, and the older Baggins would take any blessings he could get.

Then he heard a monstrous roar that made him jump and thin that Smaug had returned.

"_BILBO!"_

That rest would have to wait—he had forgotten about the rest of the Dwarves of the Company, all of them rushing for him like a herd of oliphaunts.


	12. Chapter 12

"_**Chapter 12"**_

"_BILBO!_"

The thunderous roar the Dwarves raised when seeing him made the hobbit wince and want to cover his ears in reflex; but there was no time to do the latter because the ground seemed to tremble and then the Company was swarming him. Large hands grabbed him and slapped him on the back and strong arms lifted him straight off the ground in an excited, fierce hold that crushed the air from his lungs.

Through a storm and whirlwind of bushy beards, armor, and Dwarven leather Bilbo was able to catch glimpses of well-known, fond faces: Dori, Gloin, Bifur, and Bombur, who was now so large he filled enough room for three Dwarves. All were smiling and laughing and their voices were raised in laughter and greetings that were near-overwhelming. He could feel his own face split into a wide smile of his own, and to his sudden chagrin he realized his sight was blurred with hot tears that threatened to spill over.

"I can't believe it!" he exclaimed, raising his voice over the noise. "Oh, I'm _so_ glad to see all of you again, I've missed you all so much—!"

"And you think we haven't?" Gloin asked, laughing, pulling Bilbo into a hug of his own. "Bilbo Baggins, our very home Burglar has returned to us in the Halls of Erebor!" The others raised such a cheer that again Bilbo wanted to cover his ears; out of the corner of his vision he saw Bofur and Nori cheering with the rest with Dwalin grinning, and the sight warmed his heart. Only Thorin stayed quiet and scowling, but not even the Dwarf-king's obvious dislike of Bilbo could not dim the hobbit's joy at being reunited with the Company. No matter what had happened here, a piece of his heart and life still belonged with Dwarves, and it had been difficult reminding himself over the years while in the quiet of the Shire that there would likely never to be a return to Erebor.

Then he remembered his nephew, and he stiffened in Gloin's hold. The Dwarf immediately felt that and set him back down.

"What's wrong, Bilbo?" he asked in confusion, for Bilbo was looking over at Thorin and his expression was intense and almost a little scared.

"Where's Frodo, Thorin?" he demanded, looking around for his nephew. At his question the other Dwarves quieted and they all stared in confusion at "their hobbit". Then Thorin managed a wry grin and he motioned silently behind him, and finally Bilbo saw Frodo's fingers gripping the Dwarf-king's long fur-lined cloak, hidden completely behind Thorin's larger bulk. He must have allowed his astonishment to how because Thorin explained:

"I think he's a little overwhelmed."

Bilbo slipped past the Dwarves, who watched in ever-growing bewilderment, and knelt on one knee where he could look up at his nephew instead of down. From such an angle he suddenly realized just how small his nephew was compared to Thorin. Dwarves usually reached a height of 4'6" or even 5'; hobbits only reached 3'6", and Frodo had only just reached 3'3. Thorin was nearer to 5' than not, so Frodo only reached the middle of the Dwarf's back, and not even quite that. It made him look so small and slim. His nephew met his gaze with fearful eyes, and Bilbo was forced to agree with Thorin: the loud greeting the Dwarves had given him had frightened Frodo, who was not after all so used to so much noise and so many large beings at once.

"Frodo," he said gently, "these Dwarves are my friends. They're the ones who asked me with them to take this mountain back for them. Remember the stories that Thorin and Bofur told you? About the trolls and dragon?" His nephew nodded. Bilbo smiled and motioned to the group. "Well, this is the rest of the group."

Slowly, Frodo looked carefully past Thorin's cloak, suspiciously looking at the Dwarves in turn, who all noticed at once the small halfling that had suddenly appeared. They all turned looked simultaneously at him, then Thorin, before finally settling on Bilbo. None of them looked shocked or resentful of seeing a child in the mountain: Gloin and Bombur were looking at Frodo in open wonder and pleasure, and the others were all sporting looks that could very quickly bloom into wide smiles.

'Yours, Bilbo?" Bombur asked.

Bilbo shook his head and, gripping his nephew's hand, gently led Frodo from his hiding place to stand half behind him instead. "Not mine, I'm afraid," he replied with a fond smile at his nephew. 'This is Frodo Baggins, my cousin, even though he calls me 'uncle'."

"And you are… watching over him temporarily?" Dori asked, as delicately as possible.

Again Bilbo shook his head. "He's my ward and my heir to Bag End. I'm sorry to say his parents had an accident several years back and he had no one to turn to. I took him in." He decided it was not worth talking about the few years Frodo had spent among the Brandybucks in Brandy Hall, stifled and slowly withering from the inside, before Bilbo had finally decided enough was enough. He looked back down at his nephew with an encouraging nod. "Frodo, this is Gloin, Dori, Bombur, and Bifur." At each of their names the individual Dwarves bowed and smiled in greeting.

"So this is the nephew that sparked this whole endeavor," Dori remarked as he straightened. "You're lucky, lad, to have such a caring uncle," he said to Frodo, who met his gaze for the barest moment before looking away—but there was the beginnings of a pleased if embarrassed grin on the young hobbit's face that made Bilbo's heart sing to see.

"Aye," Gloin agreed. "Very nearly seemed to _shout_ in his letter, asking for our help getting you back safe and sound."

"Looks like the lad could use a hot meal—or a few," Bombur remarked, eyeing Frodo's slim frame critically.

"Baths before dinner!" Bilbo interjected with a mock-stern glare at the enormous Dwarf, but when he looked back down at Frodo he winked. "Bombur is the best cook this side of Arda," he said quietly, "equal, I think, with the best hobbits in the Shire."

"A bath does sound quite good," Bofur agreed, finally speaking up. "Let's flood the bathing Halls tonight!" He sounded so excited about that he made Bilbo laugh, and when he saw that Frodo was finally smiling, he knew that Bofur had spoken such specifically for that reaction.

"You do and you'll be cleaning it up," Thorin warned from where he stood, but there was no heat in his words. He merely sounded tired. "Has anyone told Kili of our return?"

When the others shook their heads, he sighed. "All right. Bombur, start a dinner if you would—something our hobbits will love—and the rest of us will… refresh ourselves."

"He means we stink," Bofur stage-whispered to Frodo with a wink.

"He has to be diplomatic about it, you know," Bilbo replied. "Can't just go around barking at people and telling them stink, you know! Bofur-" He did lower his voice now, hoping to not make his nephew's injuries the highlight of the evening. He really didn't want furious, rampaging Dwarves at the supper table.

The Dwarf nodded. "Anytime," he said seriously, and sweeping his hat off, bowed. "Come with me, little master," he said, "and together we'll soak the floor!"

On the other hand, maybe he should have asked one of the other Dwarves to take him. But he decided that it wasn't worth worrying about, and instead simply watched as Bofur carefully picked his nephew up and headed off.

As he followed with the other Dwarves who had returned, he inconspicuously sniffed the cloth of his undershirt and wrinkled his nose at the odor he smelled.


	13. Chapter 13

"_**Chapter 13"**_

It felt absolutely heavenly to be able to soak in the bathing chambers in Erebor. Still a simple hobbit, Bilbo felt such a relief to shed his dirty, stinking clothes and let the hot water fill his head with laziness. It was such a wonderful feeling he almost sank below the water like a boneless fish; but he knew that that wouldn't be proper in a bath, so he regretfully pulled away from that train of thought and instead focused on his nephew.

It had taken awhile to convince Frodo that the in-ground pool that served as a bath tub was perfectly safe. Bilbo knew that the young hobbit had not yet lost his natural mistrust of water that had developed after his parents' drowning, and perhaps never would; but his nephew had cautiously and critically eyed the water before him with a look that fairly screamed _too deep_, and when he did manage to step into it he refused to leave the bottom step that led into the pool. Bilbo decided that it wasn't worth fighting over and allowed Frodo to stay where he was, trying to maintain a steady stream of mindless, comforting chatter that to him seemed to fall muted into the abyss of his nephew's silence—although he was able to at least draw a smile from the lad when he told him lightly to "wash behind his ears". Such an utterance was very familiar in Bag End as an inside-joke after one day Frodo had become so dirty while out walking that every inch of his normally-pale skin was brown with dirt—including behind his ears.

"I possess no small amount of curiosity to know how you managed that," Bilbo told him now. "I have never heard of any Baggins becoming so dirty—it must be because of that dratted Tookish blood!"

He laughed fully when he saw Frodo's expression clearing saying he was proud of that. Tookish blood indeed!

When it came to cleaning his nephew's still-tender back, however, he quickly sobered again. The whiplashes had started to scab over and heal, but they were still deep and at times painful. Some of the deeper ones still bled, and so it was with the utmost care that Bilbo scrubbed the dried blood away. For the first time since he had finally found him, Bilbo was able to see every hurt that had been done to his lad, and it made him near-mad with fury. Frodo was still too thin to his eyes, the faint outline of his ribs saying that he had been underfed during his month-long captivity, and the ugly crisscrossing welts that had been etched on his side and stomach had faded to white discolorations.

During the second day after they had left the cave, Bofur had discovered that Frodo walked with a sudden, noticeable limp. When the Dwarf had checked for less obvious markings or scars, he had found a vivid mark that stretched its way down the young hobbit's thigh—when looking at it more carefully, Bofur had realized that a serious muscle had been injured and had scarred over while healing.

"_I'm sorry,"_ he had said sadly, _"but I don't think that he'll recover full use of that leg again."_

So it seemed that his Frodo was to be saddled with a bad leg the rest of his life. Even with what Bofur called "physical therapy", his nephew would never walk without a noticeable limp.

Then there was the blackened scar that ran down in a jagged line below Frodo's left eye, perhaps caused by a knife. Probably the happening of a power play on the ruffians' parts to show that they were utterly in charge.

"Oh, my boy," he sighed now, and he reached out a gentle hand, caught up in the horror of those mementos—

But Frodo had been watching him, and had noticed the way his uncle focused on the marks on his body. It made him uncomfortable and irritated him. He didn't want to be reminded of what had happened, he didn't want sympathy, and he didn't want his uncle to shower him with useless comforts. He didn't ever want to talk about what had happened and he knew that every time his uncle or the other Dwarves would reach for him like Uncle Bilbo was doing now it would be to ask him what had transpired with the ruffians.

He knocked his uncle's fingers away, trying not to shrink away at the perceived contact, but he could not help but flinch all the same. He suddenly felt trapped. He was among friends now, he knew that; but when those friends would undoubtedly try to "fix" him and make him talk about things he had no intentions of sharing—_never_—it was time that he left. So that was what he did. As soon as Bilbo drew his hand back, looking startled and a little hurt, he drew himself from the edge of the water and as quickly as he could he grabbed his clothes and quickly dried himself off, never minding his back or the fact that rubbing it dry only irritated it more.

"Frodo!" Bilbo exclaimed, worried with his nephew's sudden change in temperament. He stood from the water and, dripping wet, left the bath as well, but he was just too late; even as his bare feet hit dry stone, Frodo looked over his shoulder at him and then was gone, flinging the door open and rushing away as fast as his injured leg would allow him.

"_Frodo!"_

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Thorin had just finished dressing from his own bath when a loud, insistent banging at his door caught his attention. He very nearly stomped his way over to it like a spoiled child and with a very low growl he grabbed the handle and with the force of a very grumpy bear thrust the door open.

And Bilbo's very frightened face greeted him. The hobbit was dressed in an over-sized shirt and a pair of trousers that they had found for him, but nothing else, and his hair was still wet from his bath. His face was white and he was panting as if he had sprinted a long way.

"Th- Thorin," the hobbit gasped, his voice trembling, "I need your help. Frodo's run off and we can't find him!"


	14. Chapter 14

"_**Chapter 14"**_

A/N: I'm so sorry with the delay with this chapter—I had Psych and English papers due both Mon. and Tue. and sadly those come first in real life! And now I've finished typing this up really fast because there's a big thunderstorm and I'm paranoid that the power will go out—we just had quarter-sized hail!

Alternate title for this story is: "His Royal Grumpiness and _That_ Hobbit's Nephew".

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Kili knew that Bilbo had returned to Erebor—after all, he had heard the bustle of his uncle's return and that would mean that Bilbo had come with him. And, Mahal willing, with Bilbo's missing nephew. He had heard the wild cheering from his rooms and had been tempted to go and see for himself, but the thought of how far Bilbo would see he'd disintegrated over the past fifty years was a very effective deterrent—so he'd decided to wait until the hobbit came to see him; then at least the meeting would be on _his_ terms, not upon anyone else's.

But by now several hours had passed, and it had become late, nearing morning. Why hadn't Bilbo come yet? Uncle had come in when he'd returned and said that the hobbit and his nephew would be along shortly, but so far they had not. Kili's mix of excitement and dread kept him awake and at time uncomfortably limping around his rooms. Finally, however, he could stand it no longer and left his chambers. Very quickly he discovered what had happened.

Bilbo's nephew was missing, run off into the halls of Erebor, and no one could find him. After walking past the kitchens and the main audience chamber, passing by the throne without a second glance, he was finally able to spot Thorin pacing the back wings for the lad, and although his uncle greeted him warmly enough he seemed tense and irritated. Kili was afraid maybe Thorin blamed him for this—after all, if Kili had not insisted the hobbits be brought back to the Lonely Mountain, then they wouldn't be scrambling to find one of them now.

"Go back to your chambers, Kili," Thorin finally told him, seeing his nephew's distress. "There's no sense in worrying yourself about this—we'll find him soon."

And sensing this was a dismissal, Kili had no choice but to turn around and leave, knowing he would only serve to upset his uncle further if he did not. He waited until he was out of the Dwarf-king's range of both sight and hearing before he stopped and considered.

The lad had been captured and, as Uncle had only hinted at earlier, hurt badly by those who had held him. This train of thought made him pause. Someone who was used to fear and the response to flight when feeling it would undoubtedly try to hide when danger presented itself. If this was the case with Bilbo's nephew, then the lad's hiding would certainly make sense—perhaps something of Erebor and its Dwarf inhabitants intimidated him. Or maybe like Kili himself he simply didn't want to be stared at. So he wouldn't be just anywhere—he'd be in the most unexpected place where no one would think to look for him.

Kili almost smiled—when he really thought about it, this situation was nothing more than a giant game of hide-and-go-seek with only one person hiding and everyone else seeking, and it only made the situation more interesting by the fact that the hider was a hobbit, the kind who could pass unseen by those they didn't want to be found by. Gandalf had certainly been right about that, hadn't he? He did smile then, amused by the thought.

But now he had a hobbit to find.

His foot was starting to hurt him again, the phantom pains shooting up the oddly-healed wound so that he limped even more. He would have to put some ointment on it before he slept—if only Oin hadn't gone to Moria with Balin and Ori! Gloin's older brother had been the best healer in all of the Dwarves' vast people, and had helped him tremendously as he recovered from his injuries; now that the old Dwarf was gone, Kili knew he was missed desperately.

He was passing the smaller, more private audience chamber when he decided to go in. He wasn't sure what it was that told him to, but he did it anyway, deciding he had to start looking somewhere. He was here now anyway.

He hadn't been in here all that often. He usually went to the large audience chamber when he needed to, and he knew that for this chamber they reserved the most private cases that the kingdom did not need to know. (And, of course, when his uncle wanted to argue with his advisors about something, but nobody was supposed to know that.) It was small only in comparison against the large, spacious main halls of the Mountain, still over two hundred feet deep and several dozen feet high and his odd-sounding shuffling footsteps echoed eerily in the utter silence as he made his slow way down away from the door. Looking around, he realized that a young hobbit couldn't hide in here—there was no place to hide in or behind, after all—

He reached the throne in his own time, trying to ignore the pain in his foot, then paused. This throne wasn't solid stone like the one in the main chamber, he remembered. Its bottom had been carved out for something, perhaps to hide treasure or weapons if they needed to be hid.

Slowly, trying to keep from pulling his stiffened side, Kili knelt on one knee and peered underneath. He smiled.

"Hello, little one," he whispered.

His guess had been correct—for there, hidden cleanly from sight, was Bilbo's missing nephew, his legs pulled up to his chin to make himself smaller in the already-small space beneath the throne. In the dim light of the torches burning along the wall all he could see of the lad was a dim outline of his hands and feet, just barely illuminated. He was trembling.

Kili sighed to himself. How would he get the lad out of his hiding place? _Should_ he even try, or would it be better to let him get over his fear first?

_But that's a silly thought_, he realized. _If I give him time to get over his fear we'll be here for days, maybe weeks._

He'd have to work slowly. "I'm Kili," he said now, and his throat felt dry and scratchy, making him want to cough. He hadn't spoken aloud in so long, and it looked like he was going to have to do a lot of it now. "You must be Bilbo's nephew, yes?"

The young hobbit shifted but did not speak, and Kili hoped that the lad would be willing to listen to him. "I've heard a lot about you. I've been excited about meeting you—you'll be right interesting enough if you're anything like our Burglar Baggins." He moved a little closer. "Would you come out here, little one? I'm afraid it hurts to be staying in one place too long." He was afraid that the hobbit would refuse, but he stood anyway—struggling to straighten up—and waited.

His kind words seemed to have worked. It took a long moment before anything happened, but finally he heard the faint scuffle of unshod feet scraping the stone and he saw two small hands appear out of the shadow of beneath the throne, followed hesitantly by the rest of him.

The lad barely reached Kili's chest, and was slight for a hobbit. He certainly looked similar to Bilbo, Kili mused to himself, but not exactly. He wondered how closely they really were related and made a mental note to ask Bilbo later. But now he was concerned about only calming the lad down.

"Your name is Frodo."

The lad looked up at him with mistrustful, vibrant blue eyes and nodded slowly. There was fear in his face and posture that he was clearly trying to hide, but was failing. He still trembled. Kili felt rage start burning in his stomach. It was clear to him that his uncle had been correct—Frodo Baggins had been clearly abused and hurt beyond total healing. His clothing seemed loose and the the deep cut down his cheek showed all-too-clearly in the dim light. Who would want to harm such an innocent? Kili had to fight to keep his rage from showing and frightening the lad off. Frodo was looking around his surroundings, and at the door behind him, with the panic of a trapped animal.

"This is a really very large place, isn't it?" Kili said softly, hoping for some common sentiment they could share. "Too large, I think, especially if we manage to lose one hobbit in it."

His remark suddenly made the lad flush and look down. Kili hid a smile. "I don't mean that in a bad way!" he said softly, and leaned closer, as if sharing a secret. "I've been wanting to do the same, see, and wait to see how long it would take for Uncle to find me—but you beat me to the idea."

The barest hint of a smile lifted the lad's mouth, and he looked back up with careful consideration. This time he was looking up at Kili,, not just looking for an exit, and then his gaze silently brushed over the Dwarf's crippled, twisted torso that he tried to hide beneath his heavy clothing and leather sur-coat and the remnant of his now-half left foot; then he looked at the terrible scars marking Kili's skin, the claw-marks dug across his cheek and nose; and suddenly, unbidden, one of his slender hands reached up from his side, his expression troubled. Tentatively his fingers reached—but then he seemed to realize what he was doing and quickly lowered them again, and for a long, still moment Dwarf and hobbit looked at each other. Wide, fearful blue eyes met shadowed, weary brown eyes, and in that split second that lasted an eternity both realized that they were staring at a kindred spirit, someone who _understood_. And with that unexpected knowledge all tension bled away. Again, Frodo's hand came up and gently touched a raised, rough scar on Kili's wrist, and he did not pull away from its odd touch, nor did he pull away when the Dwarf carefully lifted his chin to look at the dark mark running down his face. They slowly and hesitantly explored each other's hurts, and all the while both thought the same relief: they really weren't so alone at all anymore.

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When Bilbo and Thorin found their respective nephews quietly sitting together in that small audience chamber, Bilbo could not find it in himself to be angry about Frodo's running off, and although Thorin looked upset he did not shout or scold. He only half-heartedly glared at Kili, who was allowing Frodo to lean sleepily against his arm, with a look that promised a long talk later.

They really didn't mean anything, Thorin," Bilbo said quietly. He had gotten Frodo off to bed in chambers that the Dwarf-king had prepared for them and now he and said king were standing in Thorin's study (for lack of a better word).

But the Dwarf-king only grunted, lost in thought. "It doesn't mean they have the right to give us the slip," he retorted. "First your nephew runs off then mine follows him! What if something had come up? Kili is no longer able to easily defend himself and from the way those ruffians were able to nab Frodo it's safe to say your lad can't either!" He stopped speaking suddenly, then his face brightened with a thought. "I know what we can do about that, though," he said, looking at Bilbo. "We'll teach your lad defensive maneuvers. It will at least give him a fighting chance, and when he gets back to the shire, he'll have bullies to contend to, I don't suppose…"

As Thorin continued on, Bilbo felt a shock at the thought of his boy becoming a target for bullies. It was true that all faunts in the Shire dealt with some kind of deviling at some point in their youths, but never so severely. To think of Frodo being harassed by others who took advantage of his hurts made him angry all over again.

"But the Shire is a peaceful place," he protested, thinking about it from a different angle. "We do not deal in violence."

But Thorin suddenly looked at him with such a dark look he nearly backed away. "There's something going on in your homeland, Bilbo," he said flatly. "Something sinister, I think. Your neighbors are not so trustworthy as they may seem."

Bilbo's mouth went dry. "Wh- What do you mean?"

And Thorin slowly reached into one of his inner pockets and pulled something out—something small that his large hand hid. "I knew how concerned with your nephew you were after we got him back," he said slowly, "so I decided to wait until later to show you…"

"What is it?" Bilbo practically begged, his heart suddenly flying in his chest again.

Thorin sighed. "When Nori and Dwalin and I were looking through the ruffians' belongings after we killed them, we found a full bag of these—as a payment, we believe."

Bilbo took what Thorin was offering him with a trembling hand, and he felt his heart drop.

"But these are Shire coins!"

And so they were—coins the hobbits used in the Shire, made only there. The ruffian could not have gotten hold of them unless they grabbed them from a hobbit, and Frodo never had them on him.

There were accomplices _within_ the Shire.

* * *

A/N: The plot is thickening! (Evil laugh). But no, there are more twists coming, so hopefully it will keep you all on your toes!

The next update will be coming tomorrow, providing we're not all swept away from all this rain, in response to all I can sing is, _I'm just a little black raincloud, pay no attention to little me…_


	15. Chapter 15

"_**Chapter 15"**_

A/N: I am working on a "midquel" of sorts to this story that takes place during this same time. It will be called "Counting Down the Days" and involves a collapsing mine and one of our favorite two hobbits trapped with Thorin's sister Dis.

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Bilbo decided not to tell Frodo of Thorin's discovery. It would not do to unsettle the lad so soon after what he had been through—not when he still wouldn't speak and his scars were so fresh. Bilbo also didn't want him to be any more wary about the Shire than he already undoubtedly was. He kept silent about the damnable coins and, in a rare fit of rage, threw them into the lake beside the Mountain—the thought of fellow hobbits paying Men their own coin made his very soul howl as he watched the silver glint in the sunlight, the price that had been for his nephew's life. How could anyone be so low as to want to harm or even kill someone at all, but especially because of _money_?

Or had the ruffians really been after Bilbo himself? That was a point that Thorin had brought up during that night as Bilbo collapsed numbly into the seat behind him.

"After all," the Dwarf had said with a dark look, "they targeted you specifically. They didn't take Frodo for any other reason."

The letter he still had half-crinkled in his vest pocket proved that. The ruffians had warned Bilbo to stay away, told him that if he wanted his nephew to live he wouldn't follow them, and that his actions determined the outcome of Frodo's life.

"What would they have done to him, Thorin?" he had asked miserably, sure he didn't want to know but unable to keep is curiosity quiet.

And the Dwarf-king had hesitated before he answered. "Depends on what they wanted to do to hurt you. They must have known how much you care for Frodo—"

"Or a hobbit told them," Bilbo interrupted fiercely.

"Indeed." Again Thorin hesitated, but finally continued. "They could have killed him if they thought they were far enough away from the Shire… but there was also the chance that they would have sold him as a pet or a slave." When Bilbo had moaned deep in his throat, the Dwarf sighed. "Men like that have no honor, none at all. It would be better if they were killed outright, because they would stab you in the back the first chance they got. It is well that we caught them."

"You don't regret killing them?" Bilbo had asked, feeling his chest lighten a little at the thought.

Thorin had shaken his head. "Not at all. If we had let them go they would have just gone and caught someone else's child or done some kind of other mischief."

Bilbo had let the matter rest after that discussion, but he had far from forgotten it. It lurked always in his mind, the terrible possibilities that Frodo could have been put through if he and the Dwarves had not saved him in time. He still shivered remembering the ruffians' leader smiling at him: "_I'll split him open along the length of his stomach, and you'll witness him scrabbling for a breath through torn lungs before I do the same to you."_ It was clear the memories were affecting Frodo badly now as well—nearly every night he twisted himself into his sheets, suffering nightmares that kept him tense and unlike himself the rest of the day. He still had yet to speak or even make a sound, being nothing more than a mute at the moment, even if Bilbo asked him what he dreamed about. It seemed that the young hobbit was not ready to talk, and Thorin said that he could only be led through his recovery, not pushed—and since the Dwarf had had to help Kili through his own recovery, Bilbo supposed he was an expert on such matters.

Kili was the blessing Bilbo had been praying for. He and Frodo had only been at Erebor now for almost two weeks, and it seemed that of all the Dwarves there Frodo had attached himself closest to Kili and Bofur and Thorin, but most especially to Kili, who doted on the young lad like a gammer did a faunt. They made quite the pair, both of them silent and limping around the halls of Erebor together, but they seemed able to have whole conversations just by expression, and if Bilbo could not find Frodo he looked first for Kili—and sure enough his nephew would be right beside the Dwarf. They napped together on Kili's bed, explored the halls together, and usually accompanied each other to the dinner table.

The other Dwarves of the Company loved Frodo as well, to the point that Bilbo warned them playfully that they would have him thoroughly spoiled within a month. Bombur made his best dishes every night, including those he knew were the lad's favorites; Bofur carved him odds and ends that he thought would fascinate Frodo (the best of which was the three-foot-long model of Smaug). Dwalin, although he pretended to complain, still could be seen carrying the lad around sometimes piggyback-style. Every one of them had something they showed or gave him, but it was always Kili Frodo would always return to—and both of them still had yet to speak a word to each other while in others' company. Bilbo wasn't sure whether Kili spoke in private to the young hobbit, but there was a new light in his dark eyes that clearly exhilarated Thorin, who had been secretly despairing of ever seeing his nephew properly happy again.

The nightmares continued, however, and Frodo still wasn't close to his old self. It was only in Bilbo's or Thorin's or Kili's company that he would venture out of their quarters and he still acted half-wary around others. He struggled with fear and trust among those who hadn't been there since the beginning, even with the Company's Dwarves who had not been part of the immediate rescue (with the exception of Kili, of course). Bilbo worried constantly about his behavior, although Thorin told him it was normal.

"It's something that happens all-to-often," he said after one particularly hard day. "You just have to stay by him and wait. Someone who's gone through such an event isn't going to be fine within a few weeks. It will probably be months before he recovers completely."

Bilbo had no choice but to let matters go the way they were, but he couldn't help but fear that if they didn't help Frodo now, he might never recover.

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Silently, Kili opened the doors of the bathing rooms, making sure that the coast was clear before making his way through the doors. He hid a mischievous grin and turned to look behind him at Frodo, who was, like always, close by his side, looking curiously around.

It had been nearly two months now since the two hobbits had come, and although Frodo still hadn't talked aloud, he had at least advanced to writing on paper, talking with a pen even if he wouldn't with his tongue. Kili had showed him the paper earlier that month and made it clear he could use it, and so now there were several sheets of paper all spread around Kili's rooms that held long streams of conversation between the two of them. Frodo's willingness to at least communicate that way made Kili hopeful that the lad was gaining some confidence back, although he still had a marathon to run before he was done.

The hobbit needed to let himself have some fun now. Kili wasn't an expert on recovering from abuse and threats, but he thought that Frodo just needed a laugh now and then, or maybe all the time. _He_ always felt better after having a bit of a laugh, so why couldn't Frodo? The lad needed to let his guard down some before he could really start to let people into his life again—he still sometimes shut even Bilbo out if he was feeling particularly isolated—and from what Bilbo had said it seemed Frodo had been rather mischievous himself as a faunt and a young tween.

Kili decided to appeal to that inner-trickster. He looked down at the hobbit with a look that clearly asked _You ready_? Frodo looked around, as if looking for someone to tell him "no", then met Kili's gaze and nodded ever-so-slightly.

Kili went to the first spout of the in-ground bathing tub and turned it. Immediately water began to run, gushing with a muted roar onto the floor. Frodo worked turning the other one, then he went over and helped Kili with the third and last one. Although he still looked wary about this plan, there was still a glimmer of wicked excitement to his eyes that spoke that he was truly coming to enjoy this. Together they turned the water as hard as it would go and they watched as it quickly fill up the tub—but they didn't turn it off. As soon as it started to trickle over the edge and onto the main floor, Kili led them both out as fast they both could and couldn't help but snicker to himself.

Frodo had written about Bofur's joke about "flooding the bathing chambers". But the difference between Bofur and Kili was that Bofur was (probably, maybe) kidding.

Kili wasn't one to kid about something like that. He'd do it—or at least the old Kili would have. He could imagine he and Fili doing just what he and Frodo had done now, and hiding while they waited for someone to notice the flood of water. And although the thought of his lost brother was still painful enough to choke him, it was lessened just a little by the hobbit he had taken under his wing now.

Looking at it now, he realized how _good_ it felt to play a prank on someone again. It felt wonderful—invigorating and wonderful, and he also found that the shadow on his heart had lessened a little as well. It was a good day, he realized.

_Do you suppose we're taking advantage of others with our injuries?_ Frodo wrote where they sat in Kili's chambers.

Kili smiled and shook his head. _They can't be mad that we're having fun. You don't want to stay all doom and gloom do you?_

Frodo shook his head, and just at that moment, they heard a shriek of surprise from the bathing chambers, then a loud voice calling: "Flooding in the bathrooms!"

Kili nearly collapsed into his bed shaking with his laughter, trying to keep himself quiet, but still he couldn't help but laugh aloud, holding his sides as he heard frantic feet rush past his door on their way to the bathing chambers. "You'd think it was a dragon!" he finally exclaimed, practically holding his sides. Oh, how good it felt to laugh again! How wonderfully freeing to just let himself guffaw until he was ready to cry! In his euphoria of discovering happiness again, he pounced on Frodo and lifted the hobbit easily, feeling like a proud uncle. "We did it! We did it, we did it! Ha ha, let's see how long it takes to realize it was _us_ who did it!" Feeling his sense of fun awaken even more, he dug his fingers into the lad's vulnerable sides, seeking for the more ticklish areas.

And the tickling finally accomplished what nothing else could: Kili knew from experience that it was nearly impossible to keep a laugh in while with a scream you could at least control it. But now, after nearly two months of keeping his mouth tightly shut, Frodo couldn't keep from laughing, and the high, clear sound of his mirth bounced along the walls as he kicked and tried to escape the fingers tickling him. Kili thought it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

Yes, he realized, it is a very good day to be alive.

* * *

A/N: Laughter is actually proven to be one of the best medicines around, as scientists and doctors are learning today. I think laughter is just the breakthrough that our hobbit and Dwarf needs to at least begin both of their recoveries—but they still have a long way to go, because, sadly, laughter just isn't enough. But I really wish it was.


	16. Chapter 16

"_**Chapter16"**_

A/N: There is no excuse I can make for the delay of this chapter except that I just didn't feel like typing it up. (Long weekends at work will do that to you.)

A totally random realization that just occurred to me: the Dwarves call their maker "Mahal". Interestingly enough, this is the exact name of several Indian people and places—most famously the Empress Mumtaz Mahal and her extravagant tomb the Taj Mahal.

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"The bathing chambers are flooded?" Thorin repeated blankly. When the Dwarf who had come to tell him nodded now in response, he turned to look at Bilbo, who had been busy arguing with him about exploits on monetary gain. "The bathing chambers are flooded."

His expression was so utterly baffled that Bilbo had to bite back a grin with difficulty, but it was a close call. Never mind the fact that he, too, was quite confused by this startling piece of information—it was not often that he saw Thorin Oakenshield so taken aback, and this was definitely a moment he would remember forever. Instead of talking aloud, however, he merely nodded, afraid that if he did open his mouth a laugh would escape.

Thorin realized that he would receive neither help nor support from the hobbit and sighed before turning back to the waiting Dwarf. "I take it the problem is being worked on?" he asked, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming.

"Yes, sire. The floors are soaked, however, and several have slipped already. None have been injured so far."

Thorin managed a calm enough nod. "Good. I will come shortly and see what has happened—" _Or who has done this_, he thought to himself darkly, but he did not say it aloud. No need for any of the Dwarves to think that their king was going to cut some heads off. Really, when it all came down to it, Thorin Oakenshield was not an angry personality, contrary to popular belief; he had just seen too much of the world and its troubles to be a happy-go-lucky person. Smaug had banished all thought of simply _loving_ life, and therefore everything became duty to him.

"Well," Bilbo finally managed to say without worry of laughing, "I suggest deciding what happened."

"I have no need to ask your opinion," Thorin growled, irritated that this hobbit would dare presume anything. For the past fifty years he had been quite content to simply forget about anything there was to do about the Shire, unwilling to ever forgive Bilbo's stealing the Arkenstone from him.

In response to his rather rude statement, Bilbo's expression cooled ever-so-slightly, but he chose to say nothing about it—instead he simply shrugged. "I am not one of your advisors, after all," he said, and there was a hidden sharpness to his tone that caused the Dwarf to stiffen, but by the time Thorin had swung to look at him, the hobbit had already moved away to the door.

And even as the Dwarf-king leaned back into his seat, he wondered why Bilbo's remark stung.

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Three hours later, a very irritated and very wet Thorin walked down the corridor to his chambers. He had visited the bathing chambers and seen the flood that had somehow sprung out of nowhere, and had become drenched from all the goings-on (most specifically the slashing. Dwarves seemed to like to splash.) And he hated getting wet, absolutely _hated_ it—which was where his nephews had gotten the idea that he had to be part cat.

Speaking of nephews…

He had not seen hide nor hair of either Kili or Frodo at all for several hours. This was a prank that, sixty years ago, he would have expected Fili and Kili to pull just to see everyone scramble. But it just didn't seem likely that his nephew would do something like that, not now.

He still had to ask, though.

Still drenched—his boots squelching for every step—Thorin silently made his way to Kili's chambers, sure that that was where he was going to find his nephew. He did not stop to knock on the door, but walked in immediately, in mood to be polite. His mouth was opened in preparation to call for his nephew and he was drawing a breath—but then he stopped, suddenly finding himself unable to make a sound.

Kili was stretched out on his bed, wearing only a tunic that did nothing to hide the scarring of his body. It had been years since even Thorin had seen the Dwarf-prince without his heavy clothing on, ever since Kili had become so reclusive and ashamed of his physical appearance. At the moment he was sprawled drowsing on the sheets, comfortably leaning into his pillows; and Frodo was curled into Kili's side, fast asleep. The little hobbit seemed to be clutching Kili's arm, and almost in response the Dwarf's hand was resting on his dark curls, like he had been stroking them before falling asleep.

The sight before Thorin was so peaceful, so unlike either of these two, that he couldn't find it in himself to break it. Knowing that his questioning Kili would just have to wait until later, the Dwarf-king slowly backed up and, when reaching the door, closed it softly behind him.

_Let them be for now. Let them be._

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The subject of the bathing chambers did not come up until nearly three days later, when Thorin summoned Kili to his own rooms for a "personal discussion". Knowing that this meant a talk about family, the younger Dwarf felt hesitant about going, but he couldn't very well tell his uncle he wasn't going to come, so he merely swallowed down his thoughts and feelings and went. He left Frodo to do what he wanted in his rooms, writing on yet another sheet of paper.

He was pleased to note that the lad didn't look _quite_ so down.

He wasn't so sure about himself, however, as he entered Thorin's chambers to find his uncle seated with an expression of both relief and worry—he was holding a letter, written in a familiar hand that made Kili blink as he realized.

_Mother._

Oh no.

He had not seen his mother in nearly fifteen years, and part of him was glad about that. For her to suddenly contact him now threw him out of balance, and made him uneasy. What was she writing about?

Thorin looked up at him with that same odd look on his face, but his voice was neutral enough as he spoke: "You mother is coming for a visit, Kili. If everything went as she planned, she should be arriving within a matter of weeks."

_I don't want to talk to her,_ Kili thought, perhaps a little savagely, and his musings must have shown up on his expression, because Thorin suddenly sighed, looking weary.

"I'm not any happier about this than you are, you know, but I can't tell her she's not allowed back. She's willing to admit her mistakes, and I have to give her that chance."

Even if she abandoned her only son? It wasn't often that a Dwarf mother estranged herself from her children, and it became just another example for others to say that the Durin line was cursed. Such thoughts distressed him, made him want to retreat again into his rooms and not come out for several months. But then he realized that Frodo would probably be stuck in his rooms with him since the lad had somehow become attached to his side, and he knew that kind of behavior could only be damaging in the long run.

"Kili, I think I am right in assuming you know something of the bathing chambers flooding."

Thorin's voice broke him out of his thoughts, and he turned to find his uncle looking carefully at him with a raised brow. At the mention of the prank Kili had to fight back a smug grin and instead aimed to look as innocent as possible.

It didn't work. Either his uncle just knew him that well or he had lost that much skill in a convincing poker face—either way, Thorin saw through him easily, and his already-high eyebrow climbed just a little bit higher.

"So you thought it would be fun to flood the floors, where there could have been injuries or accidents? And of course there's the fact that no one could bathe for nearly two days waiting for everything to dry! What were you thinking?" He didn't seem angry, just bemused, but Kili still managed to feel a twinge of shame. Not enough to regret his actions, but it strong enough to at least explain.

"It made Frodo relax," he muttered softly, finding it strange how much more accustomed he was getting to talking aloud again.

Thorin stilled where he sat. When he knew that Kili had pulled the prank he had only thought that his nephew was being immature again—but this knowledge put a whole new twist to it. Kili had done that prank for the lad. The realization made him feel _proud_, he found, although he wouldn't say it aloud. His nephew was caring for another without selfish thought, was helping in recovery by the only way he knew how—by humor.

He would have to remember that when a situation presented itself. This only cemented the fact that there were things that the elders could learn from those younger than themselves.

So it stood that in the following months, if something inexplicable happened or a prank was pulled, Thorin merely grinned to himself and turned a blind eye, knowing that somewhere his nephew and soon-to-be surrogate nephew would be laughing together.


	17. Chapter 17

"_**Chapter 17"**_

The arrival of the king-under-the-mountain's sister, Dis, was an event that brought much talk, and gossiping started to run rampant through the halls of Erebor and the streets of Dale. All knew that the king's sister had left on bad terms fifteen years ago, but none but the royal family knew the true circumstances that brought about her bitter parting. None could deny, however, that Dis's leaving had only made things worse: Thorin's face had darkened after her departure, and it was a popular saying that the bitterness in his heart had only grown due to it; and Kili's odd depression had dipped even lower, leading to long, silent days when he hid in his rooms and spoke to no one.

Thorin blamed his sister for worsening Kili's condition; the lad had needed a loving, caring mother, one to wipe away his tears and heartache and remind him of the meaning of _family._ Instead she had blatantly said that family meant nothing now and had simply left without looking back. Thorin would always remember the almost mortally-stricken look on Kili's face when he had realized that his mother had heartlessly abandoned him, and he would never forgive her for that.

For Kili himself, he kept all thoughts of his absent mother to himself, but he knew that his heart was torn due to her leaving, and he couldn't help the anger and resentment he felt towards her. She was his mother, for Mahal's sake, and she had left him behind as if he didn't matter! She hadn't wanted to watch over a crippled son who had no chance to become king, and throughout the years before Dis had left Kili had seen the shadow of disgust in her eyes that spoke of those feelings. His relationship with her had become even more strained as time went on because he had begun to believe that maybe she even went so far as to blame _him_ for Fili's death. After her leaving he had retreated back to his chambers and had refused to open his mouth to anyone—and that had been a habit that had lasted until the day he had found a small hobbit lad hiding beneath Erebor's throne.

_You love your mother, don't you?_

"I don't know, Frodo," Kili sighed. He paced restlessly along the wall of his rooms, unable to stay still with his unease of his mother's upcoming arrival. The dark-haired halfling watched him with shadowed, tired eyes as he sat on the bed writing, as he usually did, his questions.

It had been nearly three months now since Frodo had been rescued from the ruffians, but he still refused to talk, and although Kili every so often asked him why he didn't, he refused to explain. He still flinched whenever the Men were mentioned—and no wonder, Kili thought angrily. Every day his limp and the still-twinging scars on his back reminded him of the horror he had gone through, creating an odd whirlpool of fear and mistrust that just wouldn't dissipate.

Kili bent and wrote on the parchment, suddenly feeling like he didn't want to talk. _She's my mother, but she just left one day. Why would she do that?_

Frodo shrugged helplessly. _I always thought a mother wouldn't leave unless she had to. Or if something bad happened._

Oh. Kili had almost forgotten that the hobbit was an orphan, having lost his parents ten years ago in a boating accident. Frustrated, he flopped down on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. There was no doubt about it—his family was the most screwed-up family on the face of the earth. Or maybe it was the whole world that was messed up.

Of course the world is messed up, he realized. What world allowed a mother to abandon her remaining son? What world allowed a boy's parents to die and leave him alone to fend for himself? Breathing a deep sigh through his nose, he turned his head to look at Frodo, who was looking down at him confusedly. "Guess it's just you and me, huh?" he asked wryly.

Frodo grinned and nodded, then jumped when the door suddenly creaked open. They looked over to find Bilbo peering in, smiling at the sight of them sitting together.

"Sorry to interrupt, you two," he apologized, "but I think a little lad of mine needs a bath before meeting someone important today. Think you could avid flooding the bathing chambers today?"

Frodo blushed as he realized what his uncle meant, and Kili wondered if maybe the hobbit had somehow known all along who had been responsible for that prank. Knowing Bilbo, he probably did. The young hobbit obediently climbed down from the bed and took his uncle's hand, looking back in concern at Kili. The dwarf managed a reassuring grin, and waited until uncle and nephew had closed the door behind them before he collapsed against the bed again.

It was going to be a long day.

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When Kili was summoned to his uncle's private chambers, he had no need to ask the reason why. He simply steeled himself and went, and if his footsteps sounded heavy and reluctant against the stone floor he choose to ignore it. He was only going to see his mother for the first time in fifteen years, not going to his execution.

When he knocked on the closed door of his uncle's chambers, he heard Thorin tell him to come in, and hesitantly he did so.

His uncle was seated stiffly in a hard chair beside his writing desk, his expression guarded and borderline unhappy, his attention focused solely upon the guest standing in front of him. Hearing the door creak open, he turned to Kili with the anger giving way to something like relief—and so did the guest.

Dis looked very much like Thorin, with a long mane of ebony hair that now was liberally streaked with grey, with similar piercing blue eyes, although hers were sprinkled with brown. Although not entirely alike physically, both brother and sister looked enough like each other they had pulled numerous pranks on others when they had been younger. Kili's favorite story growing up had been when his mother had ended a courtship of her brother's with a Dwarf Thorin hadn't liked by acting in his stead and entirely unnerving the suitor. That had been a story both Fili and Kili had related to Bilbo during their quest, and the hobbit hadn't known whether to act scandalized by such behavior or to simply laugh at the joke—but his mouth had twitched at an attempt at the latter.

Dis smiled to see him standing there. Was it just him, or did it seem strained. "Kili," she said softly, and her voice was the same as he remembered. That did nothing to calm his nerves. He didn't speak, and looked swiftly over to his uncle, who realized how uncomfortable he was. Kili suddenly had no wish to speak.

"Kili, what—what's wrong?" his mother asked in confusion, clearly thrown by his silence. She, too, looked over at her brother, who stood. "Thorin? Why won't he speak?"

Thorin's eyes were dark. "He hasn't made a habit of speaking since you left, Dis," he retorted, his voice trembling with his anger. "As a matter of fact, it's only been in the past three months that he's spoken more than in all these past fifteen years."

Kili felt his face flush when his mother turned back to him, looking like she'd been slapped. He wished he could leave—really he did, and hide in his chambers until she decided to leave again. Thorin noticed his thoughts and sighed.

"Kili, come and sit. We're going to have a small—_discussion_ with your mother."

And suddenly he knew Dis was going to be at the receiving end of one of his uncle's rants. The realization served to calm him, and he did not protest as he did what Thorin wanted.


	18. Chapter 18

"_**Chapter 18"**_

"Dis," Thorin began with as steady a voice he could manage, "I have allowed you to come here again when I probably shouldn't have. I did that so maybe, _just maybe_, you could realize your mistake turning your back on your last son." His tone was rough with anger, and there was a familiar growl there that Kili remembered from childhood—the tone that said he wanted to just slap you across the head. It was his "telling-off" voice, and well-known to everyone. "You left without even a goodbye!"

But Dis, whatever she was now, was still a force to be reckoned with, and the stiffening of her shoulders told both of the men she wasn't simply going to keep silent. "Explain it to me, then!" she snapped, her eyes flashing. "Explain to me why my son is a mute now and only seems _worse _than he had been fifteen years ago!"

The accusation hidden in her words caused Kili's face to drain of color. Was she really saying that it was his _uncle's fault_?! Anger reared in his throat, burning and hateful. How dare she!

"He wasn't the one who left."

The words slipped unbidden from his voice, and his eyes widened when he realized what he had just said, and he flushed when his mother and uncle turned as one to look at him; Thorin, he noticed, looked relieved that his nephew was willing to speak in his own defense, while Dis stared in disbelief at him. They looked so much alike at that moment it almost gave him pause.

"What did you say?" his mother whispered. She seemed shocked beyond anger.

Kili swallowed hard, wanting nothing more than to leave—but that was what Dis had done, and he wanted no part in acting like her. "Uncle was the one who stayed for me," he answered, and his voice was rough and trembling. "He did more than you did."

Her mouth opened to retort, but even as she looked at him she did not make a sound—and suddenly she moved_ forward_, closer to him, reaching out a shaking hand. "Kili—"

But the young Dwarf knocked her hand away, trembling with anger and shame. "Don't touch me! You come back now and think you can make everything fine? What gives you the _right_?"

"I'm your mother!" Dis exclaimed. He could not tell whether she was affected by his words or not.

"And Uncle and I have managed without you here!" he retorted, and his voice cracked from overworking his vocal chords. Or maybe it had something to do with the hard lump in his throat and the burning in his eyes. He swallowed again and looked over at Thorin. His voice dropped to a whisper again. "May I leave now, Uncle?"

Thorin nodded, his eyes on his sister. "I believe you have said your piece. Go on." He had no need to ask for someone to accompany his nephew—he knew where Kili was going to go.

Kili nodded mutely, blinking, and turned away without another glance at his mother, and left the room. The door shut quietly behind him, but the snap of it was loud.

Thorin glared at the floor for a moment, hoping to compose himself; but when he looked up at his sister, her utterly baffled expression only made him angrier.

"Don't look so surprised, sister," he snapped. "Are you only now realizing the damage you caused?"

She turned to him, and some of her confusion fled into her own anger. "You know why I left, Thorin! I thought he would have understood as well!"

"He was HURT, for Mahal's sake!" Damn it all—he had lost the battle with his temper, and the words roared out of him like a dragon's fire. "Hurt, and then you up and _left him behind_! He hasn't been the same, and the result you saw is YOUR responsibility! YOU caused that! Not me, not him, and not any of the kingdom! It was YOU! Fili's death tore him apart just as much as it did any of us—you were not the only one hurting! And you could have helped him heal, but you chose your own selfishness over your last remaining son!" He struggled to unclench his hands, afraid he may strike her. His voice dropped to a dangerous level. "If you wish to stay here at the Mountain, you will help Kili—and you will apologize. If you do not, so help me, you will be exiled. I refuse to see anything else bad happen to the boy. Especially not by one who _professes_ to love him."

No amount of argument could deny the fact that he was completely serious—Dis saw that, and to her own credit she merely nodded.

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It had been years since Kili had cried—the last time he remembered was, in fact, the morning he had found his mother had left. The irony of such a circumstance only made him want to sob harder. Alone in his rooms, he allowed himself to simply release his pent-up misery with no other thought than to cry himself to sleep so he wouldn't have to deal with the world until the morning. He was sure his uncle was taking care of telling off his other—at least finishing the telling-off that Kili had started. For that he was grateful to Thorin.

The sound of the door being pushed open caught his attention, but he did raise his head—he knew who it was anyway. Only two people walked unshod at Erebor, and only one of them walked with a limp. There was a whisper of movement and then the bed dipped under the weight of another, and he felt a small hand pat him comfortingly on the shoulder, gentle and understanding. He looked and saw Frodo looking down at him, and the young hobbit sighed seeing his tears.

"I don't know what to do," the Dwarf whispered, his voice choked. "I don't know what—"

"Quiet."

If Kili had not seen the hobbit's mouth move, he wouldn't have believed that Frodo had spoken at all, but he _had_, and there was nothing to deny in it. The one word had been said so softly it was barely a whisper, but it _had_ been spoken. And it made Kili glad to realize—Frodo had spoken for _him_, to help him through a difficulty just as Kili had done for him.

"You talked," he whispered dumbly, unable to articulate anything else clearly. His heartache was to big to put into words anyway.

But Frodo merely moved up to his head and wrapped his arms around the shuddering Dwarf, placing Kili's head in his lap and stroking the long brown locks.

It felt odd to be treated like a child again, Kili thought, and perhaps at any other time he would have been embarrassed, but for now he simply allowed himself to be comforted, and shut out the world until the morning.

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It was Bilbo who found them this time, having wondered where his nephew had gone. He had not seen either Thorin or his sister, but supposed it wasn't entirely unlikely that Kili had already left their company, so he headed down to the Dwarf-prince's rooms. Opening the door, he found the candles had almost completely burned down, and shadows played deeply on the walls. Kili was stretched out on the bed, clearly asleep, and Bilbo's nephew was sitting beside him, almost as if he was keeping vigil over the sleeping Dwarf. He looked over when the door creaked, and for a long moment uncle and nephew simply looked at each other.

Bilbo held out a hand, and slowly Frodo drew himself off the bed and padded across the floor, and when he grabbed Bilbo's fingers his grip was tight and warm. Bilbo had no need to ask what his nephew had been doing, and he merely smiled proudly at him. Frodo looked back once into the darkened rooms, then obediently followed his uncle up to their own rooms and bed.


	19. Chapter 19

"_**Chapter 19"**_

A/N: We will leave the angst behind for a while, and we'll have a brief "interlude"—as it were—as Thorin explains some Dwarvish history. This chapter was inspired by the opening of the Hobbit film, so you have that to blame.

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"…It was a quiet-enough day, I suppose, when there was suddenly a deep rumbling over the mountains, and a gale sprang upon us. At first we thought perhaps it was a violent storm risen early from the south, but we very quickly realized it was something much more dangerous."

Thorin's voice was low but soft, and his eyes shone with pleasure at the tale he was explaining to a wide-eyed Frodo, who was sitting straight and tense, fully engaged with the telling of the coming of Smaug to Erebor. "The dragon was a fire-drake, you see, the last of his kind and all the more fierce because of it. And he came down upon Dale and the Lonely Mountain like one of Morgoth's spawn, and there upon beat upon our doors, seeking our riches. He battered the doors with fire—and this was a hotter fire than even our greatest forges—and spilt them asunder with his front claws. Several of us soldiers stood our ground and fought against the creature's entrance, but we were too few and Smaug too powerful. We had no choice but to retreat."

Smoking his pipe, Bilbo smiled to watch the now-easy interaction between his nephew and the stoic King Under the Mountain. It was a quiet evening in Erebor, and the hobbits had retreated into their chambers for the night when they were surprisingly greeted by Thorin himself, who had been looking for Kili. When being told that his nephew was currently visiting with Dwalin to speak about the Mountain's security, the Dwarf-king had decided to stay and explain some of Erebor's history—a decision no doubt helped by Frodo's own silent inquiry. So now the hour found Thorin seated beside the hearth, dressed in the coolest clothing he had due to the heat of the night, looking just as pleased with the story as the young hobbit did who was sitting practically on his feet.

It seemed, Bilbo thought fondly, that his Frodo enjoyed a good suspense story. Indeed, his nephew had not so much as moved the entire time Thorin had been speaking, absorbed in the events the Dwarf was so artfully explaining.

"Many of our best warriors were lost that day beneath the dragon's feet, or burned by his fire. I myself was nearly trampled as he slashed and shouldered his way in through the entrance. My grandfather, Thror, had been driven to madness in his lust for his gold, and sought to protect his treasure, and had to be dragged away as Smaug burrowed himself into it.

We could not fight the dragon then, not so scattered and wounded. We left Erebor's doors and they shut behind us, never to be opened again. And here Smaug stayed for ninety years, unchallenged and unhindered—until the time arose in which the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain could take back what was ours."

The ending was a bit abrupt, Bilbo decided, and thoughtfully blew a smoke ring so that it cartwheeled through the air. Thorin's anecdote had aroused his own passion for storytelling, and for a moment he considered the idea of perhaps writing down the Quest for Erebor. Doubtless Frodo would hear all about it while visiting here, but Bilbo wanted his nephew to have solid proof, a legacy, of a piece of history that should not be forgotten. Perhaps Frodo could even continue the story with his own Adventures, which Bilbo was sure he would have besides this one.

As if following his train of thought, Frodo glanced over at him curiously, and when he looked back up at Thorin, his question was plain to see.

"You want to know when your uncle entered the story," Thorin remarked; but when Frodo nodded, he hesitated, and his gaze uneasily flitted to Bilbo, and the hobbit realized that the Dwarf was nervous to speak about the Adventure. But he did, even if it took him a moment to gather himself.

And Thorin did a decent job explaining of Gandalf's visit to Bag End's door accompanied by thirteen Dwarves, and their travels through the Wild, and Bilbo helped tell of their meeting with the Trolls—something that Frodo keenly seemed to enjoy—and finally their visit to Rivendell. At that point Thorin took on a stoic silence as he scowled at the mentioning of the Elves he still disliked. It fell to Bilbo to explain the Last homely House, which he did with pleasure, emphasizing Rivendell's majesty and beauty and peace—and its equally grand inhabitants—all the while with a sly smile as he looked over at the Dwarf. Thorin's scowl deepened in irritation at the hobbit's tactics, but did help continue telling of the Company's trek through the mountain passes and seeing the stone giants, and then of their capture by the goblins in the Misty Mountains. By this point Frodo was practically sitting in Thorin's lap, as if by touching the Dwarf he could get even closer to the story, utterly entranced. Bilbo thought wryly that now they would have no chance to extract the lad from the wargs and goblins and dwarves that were currently holding him hostage, but found he himself was enjoying the story too much to stop now.

Until, that is, he approached the story of Gollum. At that point he faltered, suddenly unable to speak of the dank, musty cave that Gollum had lived in, nor could he put into words the fear and horror of that time when his life had hung in the balance with the success of telling riddles; most especially, however, he could not seem to talk about the ring he had found there. Unbidden, his fingers closed around the small trinket he kept even now in his pocket, and felt a rush of illogical suspicion. What if by telling others about it, the ring would be taken from him? Such a thought caused an ugly fury to suddenly choke him, and he stiffened where he sat, and for a moment his face had transformed into a dark mask of mistrust and anger.

But then it was gone as quickly as it had gone, and he was left feeling shaken; luckily, neither Thorin nor Frodo seemed to have noticed his moment of oddness, and he decided to brush it off, thinking that it would never happen again. As it was, he brushed very lightly over the subject of Gollum and their game of riddles, and said that the ring had been given to him as a present for winning. Frodo was still too enraptured in the tale to notice any tension in his uncle, but Thorin looked over at him curiously.

They continued their story without much more hesitations, and Azog's battle with them and their rescue by the Eagles was told quickly. When told of Bilbo's risking his life for Thorin's when the Dwarf-king lay wounded and defenseless, Frodo looked over at his uncle with such open awe and pride that Thorin's heart seemed to twist in his chest, and again he seemed to hear his own vice shout that accusation: _"Traitor."_ But this time, the memory brought with it a new emotion, or at least one he had always chosen to ignore—shame. At that moment, Thorin Oakenshield fully realized the wrong he had done by the hobbit sitting beside him now; it had not been Bilbo's fault for their falling out, it had all been Thorin. He had wanted to believe that the hobbit had taken the Arkenstone simply out of spite, when in all reality he realized now Bilbo had done it out of selfless fear for his companions, afraid that due to Thorin's own stubbornness they would all die.

And it took this story to make him realize it. It took this moment of retelling to remind him of the fact that Bilbo, the one who had saved his life, would not have betrayed him. Bilbo had only done what he had out of a sense of _loyalty_ to him.

"_Loyalty. Honor. A willing heart. I can ask no more than that."_

And Bilbo had given him all three.

"Bilbo," he said finally, breaking out of his thoughts, "I will see you outside. Now."

And Bilbo, Mahal bless him, merely nodded, cutting off his sentence halfway through and assuring Frodo he would be back in a few moments. Neither of them noticed it, but Frodo's frown of concern seeing Thorin's customary scowl deepen clearly spoke of that old fear of _spontaneous combustion_.

Once out in the hall, in a secluded spot hidden from prying eyes, Thorin looked everywhere but the waiting hobbit, and mumbled,

"Bilbo, I have—I have wronged you. Badly."

Bilbo merely waited. There was no need to ask what the Dwarf was talking about. Again it took Thorin a long moment to talk—he was not one to easily admit his wrongs, especially not a wrong that he had been resolutely avoiding for the past few decades, but his shame was now too great to keep quiet.

"I was too… proud to realize that- that you were only doing what you thought was right. And- and maybe you _were_ right, and I am sorry for how badly I repaid you for what you did. You only had the best intentions." He took another deep breath, feeling awkward, but still unable to simply stop now. "I hereby declare your banishment from Erebor dissolved completely; you may stay here for as long as you wish, and you will again by known as a friend to the Lonely Mountain. I can only hope that you can forgive me for what I did to you."

For a long moment, Bilbo merely looked at him, shocked beyond words; but then a slow smile spread across his face, a smile that brightened his eyes and erased the exhaustion from his face, and to Thorin's confusion the hobbit began to laugh, at first quietly, but then loudly. For a long moment he could not reply, but he looked up at Thorin with such cheer the Dwarf could not be offended by the reaction.

"Bless the thick-headedness of Dwarves," Bilbo chuckled, his eyes bright with tears of mirth. "Thorin, you have asked for my forgiveness, but you only have to realize that you had it even before you asked. Indeed, you had my forgiveness when you came to help me by that cave-side." And before Thorin could reply, the hobbit bowed and left, going back to the rooms and smiling at his waiting nephew.

And for a long moment, Thorin could only stand in the shadows of the hall, trying to understand what had just happened; Bilbo's words echoed in his mind. _You had my forgiveness before you asked. You had it when you came to help me…_

And for the first time in a long time, Thorin's scowl fell away and was replaced by a small, youthful smile. He did not lose it even as he reentered the hobbit's quarters.


	20. Chapter 20

"_**Chapter 20"**_

A/N: this is a warning for those of you who read this chapter: there will be a, as my sister put it, "gross" explanation of why Frodo won't talk.

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It was Dis who made the first move the next time she and Kili met face-to-face. For a long moment neither of them moved—the air itself seemed frozen with the suspense of the unknown. Mother and son merely stood awkwardly on the opposite side of the room, trying not to look at the wounds that had been torn into them by bitter words, until finally Dis walked forward, nearer to him.

"Kili—"

"If you came only to berate me and accuse Uncle anymore, you can turn around and leave," he cut across her. "I want nothing to do with anyone who will only drag me down." Perhaps that was a selfish wish, but it was the truth—Kili had had enough of being quiet and withdrawn, of letting the blows of life dictate what he did. Even if one of those people was his mother.

Hearing his baldly-said declaration, Dis stopped and took a low, shuddering breath. The sound was harsh and dry. But her eyes remained clear and she met his gaze. "It is your right," she finally said quietly. "And I cannot dictate what you do. But please—hear me out. That is all I ask."

Kili stood as straight as he could and folded his arms. "Go on."

His mother did not move from where she stood; she didn't even lift her gaze from his. They were almost locked in a battle of wills, neither of them willing to admit defeat and allow themselves comfort or reassurance. "It hurt, Kili," she said, and her voice was cold. "It hurt to see my eldest son dead, and my brother and youngest son near death."

Kili knew. Delirium and fever had accompanied several of his pain-wracked memories of the days following the Battle of the Five Armies; he could remember crying out in his agony as his mauled limbs were straightened, as he felt pins and needles attacking destroyed joints. It had been an extremely close call for him, as Oin had told him later.

A warg had attacked him near the end of the battle. Its teeth had ripped into his torso, snapping his ribs and nearly reaching his spinal cord. Deep levels of muscle had been warped and twisted by the animal's maddened attack, and he had barely escaped paralysis, as the warg's teeth had missed his spine by mere centimeters. His face had been sliced open by an Orc's blade earlier, leaving a deep wound gaping across his nose, which was probably what had drawn the warg to him in the first place—they went crazy at the smell of blood.

Nobody knew what happened to his foot, least of all Kili himself. All anyone knew was that at the beginning he had had two of them, and then when he was found he was missing his right boot and half of his foot to accompany it.

There had been memories of that time afterwards, however; memories of his mother, normally so strong and stoic, standing beside his bedside, clutching his good fingers in her own and weeping, begging him to hold on and survive. She had done the same thing at Thorin's bedside, going between them, day and night sitting vigil beside them as if by her mere presence she could stave off death. As Kili had found out later, he had needed a blood transfusion after losing too much of his own and his mother had offered her own without hesitation.

He nodded now, choosing to study the floor. "I know," he muttered.

"You were so close to dying, Kili—both you and Thorin, and I didn't know what I would do if you had… I couldn't have borne it if I had lost you too! And afterwards, you were never the same, you were so quiet and withdrawn and I couldn't help you—"

"You never tried!" Kili shouted, feeling frustration and, yes, even resentment rise up at her words. "You never tried to understand what I was feeling—you never asked how lost I was, how much I missed Fili and what you could do to help! You only sat there feeling _sorry_ for me and Uncle, and you allowed others to do what you should have done! You _abandoned_ me, Mother, and you did that even before you actually left."

"I _couldn't_ help you!" Dis shouted right back. "I tried—we all tried to help you, Kili—but you wouldn't let us! You pushed us all away and never let us come close! You shouted at us and told us to go away if we even so much as talked to you and you shut yourself away so much in your room we never even saw you!" Her voice shook only the littlest bit, but she controlled herself, and her voice softened again. "I wasn't going to watch you waste away—and Mahal forbid, I wasn't going to go into your room one morning and be the one to find you dead!"

Her last sentence made Kili rock back onto his heels, and he felt the blood drain from his face. _"What?"_

His mother met his gaze fiercely. "I was terrified you were going to kill yourself, Kili. I wasn't going to witness that. There were already too many nights of staying up wondering when I would find you dead on the floor or hanging from the ceiling."

For a long moment, Kili could only stare at her in horror. Did she really think he would have committed suicide? Sure, he had considered it, had even devised the most efficient plans to go through with it, but for some reason something had always held him back. For some reason, he had always wanted to live more than he wanted to die, even if he didn't understand why. But now things were making more sense—and he realized his mother wasn't so much to blame after all. Kili had been part of the reason too—he realized now that by cutting himself off from others, and telling himself that it should be they who made the first move in helping him recover, that he had only hurt himself. The others could not have helped him unless he opened up and told them he _needed_ help.

And he never had.

"I…" And for once, he could find no response. He could only stare at his mother and feel the years of guilt and shame sitting on his shoulders twist and change into a different kind of guilt—a type of guilt heavier and more choking than before.

'_What have I done?'_

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and it was the loudest his voice would get.

Dis shook her head, however, guessing his train of thought. "I shouldn't have left," she replied. "We're all to blame with this."

Kili swallowed hard against the lump that was forming in his throat. It was all just too much right now, nothing made sense. "Mother—" he began, and unbidden a low sob escaped him, whether it was from sadness or guilt he didn't know. All he knew was that he felt like his legs couldn't hold his weight, but before he could fall he felt her strong arms catch him and hold him like he had wanted for so long. It was such a foreign feel now, but he reveled in it, even as tears fell fast and hot down his face.

But it wasn't a sad cry now. Merely one that needed to happen.

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_Everything is okay between you now?_

Kili nodded as he read Frodo's question. His eyes still felt dry and heavy from his tears, and although he looked back on it with slight embarrassment—crying in his mother's arms at his age!—he didn't regret it. Dis had shed her own tears, and somehow the grief between them, the apologies and forgiveness left unsaid, had brought them closer.

"It'll take time before we're totally fine," he answered slowly, "but we're going in the right direction."

Now that he knew what he had done, he was going to try to fix it. There would be no more hiding, no more pushing people away.

But his mother had been correct—it wasn't entirely his fault, just as it wasn't all her fault either. They both shared equal blame in this. But wasn't acknowledging the mistake the first step to fixing the problem?

He looked down at the small hobbit sitting quietly on his bed, absently twirling the quill between his fingers. He appeared lost in thought, but met Kili's gaze quickly enough when the Dwarf stared at him too long. His eyes were questioning.

Kili sighed. He knew that _he_ was recovering—but what of Frodo? Maybe it was his own talk with his mother that did it, but now he wanted to help Frodo in much the same way: to pinpoint the main problem, the roadblock in full recovery, and remove it.

"Why won't you talk, Frodo?"

His question made the young hobbit stop mid-movement—even his expression seemed to freeze. For a long moment neither of them moved, only looked at each other between an expanse of silence; then Frodo shook his head. He wasn't going to speak.

"Those ruffians can't hurt you now. You know that." Kili wasn't sure if that was what scared the hobbit most, but it seemed a logical choice to start at. But then he realized that maybe Frodo _didn't_ know that. "Right?"

And Frodo looked up at him, and his eyes were shadowed with fear. Very slowly, he shook his head again.

Kili's heart sank. "Oh, Frodo." It felt so strange for him to be the one talking now, but he had to. He couldn't just stop this conversation. Not again. Then another thought occurred to him, something that Bilbo had recounted to him in a moment of concern. "Bilbo said you reacted badly to Thorin telling him to 'hold his tongue'," he said slowly, and dread began to pound at his chest. "What exactly did those ruffians threaten you with, Frodo?"

The young hobbit was looking seriously frightened now, his face white and every limb trembling. He shook his head relentlessly now, without conscious thought, and his expression begged Kili not to make him tell him.

"None of that, Frodo," the Dwarf replied, shaking his head as well. "You can't keep all of this bottled up. We can't help you if you don't let us. _Please_—tell me."

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Thorin and Bilbo were just catching up on news in the audience chamber when the heavy oak door shook with a heavy pounding. Both of them turned simultaneously to find it flung open with a sharp _'crack!'._ And there was Kili with a thunderous look to his face and the air fairly seeming to crackle with his fury. His resemblance to Thorin at the moment was uncanny.

"Kili!" Bilbo gasped as the Dwarf limped over to them. His fists were clenched and his eyes were dark. "What—"

"Those ruffians," Kili snarled in a voice not his own, "those _damn_, cursed _bastards_—"

"What about them?" Thorin demanded.

His nephew paced restlessly, unable to stay still. "You shouldn't have killed them so fast!" he exclaimed. "They threatened him! They beat him and starved him, and when he dared make a noise, they threatened to- to—" But then Kili's voice seemed to abruptly fail him, and he closed his eyes, looking a little sickened.

"What did they do?" Bilbo nearly shouted, his eyes fearful and furious. When Kili still did not speak, the hobbit went over and gripped the collar of his shirt fiercely. "What did they do to my boy?" His voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper. His face was white.

Kili swallowed, then spilled everything out in one breath. "I—they threatened if he said anything or made a sound they would cut out his tongue and make him eat it."

Dead silence reigned. Everything as completely still; and still Bilbo looked up at Kili with a face white as death, until finally, just as Thorin thought that the hobbit was going to go on a rampage, his legs went out from under him and Bilbo crashed to the floor in a dead faint.

* * *

A/N: Pretty grisly, yeah. But I don't think I'd talk either with a threat like that!

As for Kili and Dis's reconciliation, I hope it didn't seem too rushed, but like Kili said, their conversation was only the beginning. They still have a long way to go to recover their relationship. But for several depressed people, they need that wake-up call that they have a hand in their own pain as well. So many people suffering from depression shove others away and refuse to allow help—they won't speak of their problems and they lock themselves away, which harms them even more. So for any people who struggle with depression, just take it from me (trust me, I know)—don't shove others away. Find someone you can trust and talk about what's wrong. Seriously. Let people know what's wrong—as Kili discovered, your loved ones aren't going to demand you tell them.

Your recovery depends on you.


	21. Chapter 21

"_**Chapter 21"**_

A/N: I know I grossed you out last chapter. Apologies are mine!

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"Stretch, lad! Stretch!" Bofur's voice, although raised, was soft and gentle. From that alone, Bilbo knew that the Dwarf was not upset, merely engrossed in his directing. Sitting alone reading on a bench, he silently watched his nephew and the Dwarf who were currently across the courtyard. Bofur, as the unofficial "go-to" healer, was at the moment teaching Frodo certain stretches and exercises that allowed the young hobbit to stretch out the stiffened muscles in his injured leg, hoping that they would lessen the limp he had. They had been doing this for about two weeks, in between self-defense lessons Dwalin helped teach, and Bilbo was glad that his nephew was showing marked improvement. His walking was more limber and smooth now—not completely normal, and the limp was still there—but it was better.

Bofur frowned, however, from where he stood. Frodo was seated on the ground, his injured leg stretched out straight like it should be but the young hobbit simply was not putting any effort into it today.

"What's wrong, lad?"

Frodo shook his head. "Hurts," was all he said, but Bofur understood.

He sighed. "Well, no use overworking strained muscles. We'll call it a day, huh?" He helped the hobbit to his feet and walked over to where Bilbo sat.

"What's wrong?" Bilbo asked immediately, concerned. "Frodo?"

When all his nephew did was mutely shake his head, Bofur intervened. "Just sore muscles is all," he explained.

"Ah." For a moment, Bilbo was silent, then turned back to his nephew. "Why don't you go relax in our rooms?" he suggested finally. "Or take a bath—that always seems to help."

When Frodo had gone, Bilbo stared after him in worry. Bofur nudged him before seating himself, pulling the hobbit from his thoughts.

"The lad is fine, Bilbo," he said quietly.

It really was quite amazing how well Bofur could read him, Bilbo thought idly. How _all_ of the Dwarves could read him. His hand came up without conscious thought and grabbed the ring he kept there, something that Bofur noticed. Of course his sharp eyes missed little.

"Bilbo, what are you handling?"

The hobbit started. "Pardon me?"

Bofur nodded in the direction of his pocket. "What d'you have there in your pocket?"

"_What has it gots in its pocketsess?"_ The cold snarl of Gollum caused Bilbo to shiver, its memory still capable of causing fear. He looked at Bofur again, and his fingers curled convulsively around the small band of gold. He felt reluctant to speak. _What do you want with it? _he asked in his mind, but when he finally did speak, he was able to do so calmly.

"Just the ring I found on the Quest."

Bofur raised an eyebrow. "The one you got from that Gollum-creature? The one you said you won?"

"What's it to you?" Bilbo asked, almost snapping, then he realized how rude he sounded and immediately apologized. "I'm sorry, Bofur—"

The Dwarf shrugged, then stood, but his gaze had gone oddly cool. "Suppose it's not my business," he replied, interrupting before the hobbit could carry on, but his expression was almost suspicious as he looked at Bilbo. "I'll take my leave, then. Good day, Bilbo."

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He went to find Thorin. Bofur had to share his suspicions with someone, and he decided that the Dwarf-king was the best option. And if he couldn't find Thorin then Kili would be the _next_ best option. By a stroke of luck, he found them both in Thorin's study, discussing an issue with the Northern entrance. When they heard the door open, they turned as one.

"Bofur," the Dwarf-king said. Kili was frowning, as if he could already sense the tension the other Dwarf was feeling.

"Thorin," Bofur replied. "Kili. I've come in concern for Bilbo."

Neither Kili nor Bofur missed Thorin's tensing. "What's happened?"

Bofur shook his head. "I don't know—and that's the problem. I was talking with him just now and he became—rather short when I asked him what he had in his coat pocket. He snapped it was simply the ring he found, but there was something _off_ about the way he said it—like he didn't think he could trust telling me that."

"But… why would he be afraid for a ring?" Kili asked blankly, clearly thrown. "Why would he think we would take it?"

"Maybe it holds something over him, like a spell," Thorin said quietly, and the weight of his own past with the gold sickness had darkened his face. His companions paused to consider that, but for his sake they did not speak aloud of Thorin's mistake.

"What should we do?" Bofur asked, looking to the thoughtful Dwarf-king.

For a long moment, Thorin merely considered their options. Then finally he shook himself. "Nothing," he replied. "Not now. We'll be watchful, but this is the first instance of such a behavior, yes?" He waited until Bofur nodded before he continued. "We'll make sure the others are notified about what's happened—but there will be no confrontations about this."

For a long moment, none of them moved—but finally, with a swift glance at each other, Kili and Bofur nodded in agreement.

Once alone by himself, though, Thorin sat heavily into the chair behind him and thought about what Bofur had said. It was concerning, yes—and something that needed watching.

0000000

"Ready for bed, my lad?" Bilbo asked. It was late enough now that he was holding back his yawns.

Seated on their bed, Frodo nodded. "Yes, Uncle."

Bilbo smiled fondly at him, grateful beyond words that his lad was speaking again—albeit softly, and in only a word or two, but that didn't matter a bit to the older hobbit. As long as his nephew was willing to at least speak that much he was not going to complain. He paused for a long moment and simply looked the younger hobbit over. "You're about ready to head home, I'd think," he said.

Frodo looked up at him in surprise, unprepared for such a remark, but then he grinned sheepishly and nodded slightly. Quickly Bilbo did a quick count-up in his head and realized with a jolt that he and Frodo had been gone from the Shire nearly five months now. Certainly long enough for a young tween to be missing his home. Yes, he realized, very soon they would have to leave for the Shire.

"Perhaps we can celebrate our Birthday here together and then leave before winter sets in," he remarked with a wink. His nephew smiled, having almost forgotten their Birthday. Hopefully this one would be one to remember.

If Bilbo felt any wish to remain in Erebor for good, he kept it carefully to himself.


End file.
